


'Til We Get the Healing Done

by dizzzylu



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, Canonical Character Death, Full Shift Werewolves, M/M, Panic Attacks, Slow Build, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We're gonna have to give him a name, y'know," Stiles says instead, and he eases his way out of John's hold, his face so bright and happy, John can almost ignore the nagging feeling of what did I just get us into.</p><p> <i>My take on the wolf!Derek trope. Begins more or less shortly after the Hale fire, about a year (I'm estimating) after Claudia's death. Becomes sort of canonical toward the end of part two, insofar as it takes into account all the goings-on of S1, but is canon divergent after that.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

  * For [usarechan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/usarechan/gifts).



> Written for [Teen Wolf Reverse Bang](http://twreversebang.livejournal.com/). Usarechan was my lovely, lovely artist and you can find a masterpost of her amazing artwork [here](http://i.imgur.com/z9DqTtU.jpg).
> 
> Originally, this fic was to be more Derek/Stiles-y than it is, but I somehow got some Stilinski feels in my eye and never recovered :/ Thanks to kriari and bluefjords for the cheerleading. 
> 
> I feel like I've tagged everything that needs tagging, but if you notice something, please don't hesitate to let me know.
> 
> Further elaboration of warnings in the end notes.

John thought the hardest part of Claudia's death would be her wasting away before their eyes. Living through the slow, painful process of her fading away until she was nothing more than a wisp of skin and bone, almost too fragile to look at, let alone touch. The kindness was that her personality disappeared last, once she was too weak to be the bright, vibrant girl he met at Berkeley, the quirky, devoted mother Stiles had known his whole life. Even if she couldn't stay awake long enough to check over his homework, she at least had the good cheer to joke and laugh with Stiles, to ask him about Lydia and Harley and his days at school.

Of course John was wrong.

For some, it might be coming home to an empty house, seeing the shadow of her in the corner, decorating the Christmas tree, or at the stove, checking on the pot of chunky potato soup she loved so much. Their bedroom is worse, her perfume still tinging the air, the hint of cinnamon and vanilla both welcome and a curse. Her dresser still in chaos, the reflection of her smiling up at John in the mirror. But John's had time to get used to that, to the lack of her everywhere but in his heart.

No, the hardest part is the silence in Stiles' room, in the kitchen when he does his homework or the living room, where a night of Playstation would often end with John sending Harley and Stiles to their separate corners. Even his office at the station is too quiet, now, without Stiles studying the bulletin board behind John or peeking through the filing cabinets, unable to be still for more than two minutes at a time.

John assumes it's fed by anger at him, for not being there when Stiles and Claudia needed him the most. For leaving his brave, brilliant little boy to hold his dying wife's hand at the end.

(He can't stop wondering if she was in pain, then. If she begged for John and made Stiles promise not to leave her. John hopes that she wouldn't, can't imagine her being so cruel, but he also remembers the tear tracks on her face, on Stiles' chubby cheeks and is coward enough to never ask.)

Not even the deputies can shake Stiles out of it. All the people who have only ever looked at Stiles like something of a station mascot, the reason they all do what they do, unable to draw a peep out of him other than a quiet hello. John can hear it every time their hearts crack, and his hand taps at the bottom drawer, just once, reaching for the bottle he gave to Melendez months ago.

The only thing Stiles seems to take to are the police dogs: Frankie and Saffron and Cleo.

Saffron is Stiles' favorite, with her easy stoicism, sitting next to Stiles without ever flinching, quiet and watchful. She takes his weight perfectly, Stiles leaning into her inch by careful inch, until he breaks down and slings an arm around her back, his nose buried in her short, thick fur. She gives John the sad eyes, then, wet and dark, but she never flinches or shies away. Not even when Stiles falls asleep with his dead weight pinning her down.

Cleo is John's favorite, her excited nuzzling and short yips filling a little bit of the silence. She snuffles at Stiles pockets and hands, searching for treats, but even if she doesn't find them, she drapes herself all over Stiles, rubbing herself against his back and head. She doesn't stop until she earns herself a squawk, loud enough for John's heart to clatter to a halt. He always chances a glance over at the two of them, hoping this day will be the day, that he'll get a smile, maybe a bright knowing look in return, but all he sees is a sad twist to Stiles mouth, his teeth biting hard at his lower lip. Sometimes, more often than John would like, Stiles' lashes are wet and spiky. Those are the times John's stomach swoops low, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from wishing for Claudia's guidance, even though they talked and talked to prepare for this.

Frankie is the pup of the pack, only a year old and new to the station. He's shy with everyone, but especially Stiles. Stiles is patient with him, though, in a way John never thought possible, not after they diagnosed the ADHD. It would be funny, if not for the circumstances, to sit and watch the two of them face off. Frankie on one side of the office, head resting on his paws, watching Stiles through his eyelashes. Stiles on the floor across from him, leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him, one foot ticcing from side to side. He doesn't use treats to lure Frankie closer, just good old patience. It takes weeks, and a lot of low, soothing words, but his smile at the end, his laugh as he tries to dodge Frankie's eager tongue, is worth it.

But at the end of every night, Stiles and John always have to go home. And the silence is deafening.

: : :

It's Stiles who notices at first, sprawled out on the floor with Saffron on her side next to him, his hand tracking up and down her fuzzy brown belly. He's reading a school book and muttering to himself, so John notices Stiles' silence right away and looks down. Stiles' hand is frozen in place, flat over Saffron's nipples. Only his thumb is in motion, sweeping in a short arc. His eyes flick up to find John and they're dark and panicked, wide with worry.

"What is it?" John asks, low.

Stiles swallows once, his throat working hard around the words. "I feel something."

John doesn't ask what. They've both been through too much for him to not know what would have Stiles scared. He falls to his knees instead, ignoring the ache as he nudges Stiles out of the way to feel for himself. Saffron jumps at the new hand, but John can feel it anyway: a lump about the size of a dime, hard under his fingertips.

"I'll call Dr Deaton in the morning," he tells Stiles. He gives Saffron's belly a pat, then Stiles' hand a squeeze. He wants to say more, but his mouth refuses to form the words _it'll be okay. She'll be okay._

They both know that isn't always true.

: : :

Stiles barely survives the two day wait, and John only manages to appease him by promising Stiles can go with them to Deaton's.

They go in after hours, which is usually how police dog visits work, but this time there's more equipment involved. X-rays and an ultrasound machine, syringes both large and small. Stiles is behind John and bumps into him when John comes to an abrupt stop. He spins, catching Stiles by the shoulders, and steers him away, down the hall toward the kennels.

"Dr Deaton told me he has a litter of puppies," John says. "Why don't you go play with them while you wait?"

Stiles gives John a dubious look, but the kennel door is propped open and John can hear the tiny howls just beyond it. Stiles turns toward it, his lips threatening to smile.

"Can I take them out of the cage?" he asks.

Deaton comes out of nowhere to startle John with his answer. "Only if you put up the fence," he says. "And clean up after them if they make a mess."

John isn't sure giving a nine year old that much responsibility is a good thing, not when Stiles is still grieving, but Stiles gives Deaton a solemn nod and is very careful to close the kennel door. John can't really argue with that.

: : :

Deaton's exam seems to go on for ages, time passing slow and quiet, but Deaton insists on being thorough. And since he charges a drastically reduced rate for the police department, a rate even more generous than Dr Robbins used to, John insists on the works, whatever Deaton needs to determine what the lump is.

Once Deaton insists on a biopsy, John is asked to leave the room, trading places with Deaton's lone assistant. He heads for the waiting room at first, out of habit, but then remembers Stiles and the puppies and redirects. John could use a little puppy therapy, too.

John is pleased to see the kennel door is still closed, but it's quiet on the other side. No squeaking puppies or barking dogs, eager to bask in Stiles' attention. Worse, there's no sign of Stiles, no low cooing or giggling or anything at all. He opens the door carefully, hoping to find Stiles passed out with the pack of puppies scattered around and over him, but the floor is bare, the fence tucked away and the puppies in their cage, a furry pile of wheezy snoring. Stiles is nowhere to be found.

Panic rises hot and sour in John's throat. He tries to push it down, picturing Deaton bolting the front door and throwing the slide lock at the top, too high for Stiles to reach. He assumes the back door would be locked the same, but Stiles is a clever boy and can get bored easily. It's also late, later than usual. It could be he slipped out and nested down in the cruiser. It wouldn't be the first time, but he usually gives John a head's up first.

John checks both doors, just in case, but they're both locked just like he expected. And the windows in the two extra exams rooms are both shut as well. John tells himself this is a good thing. It means Stiles is still in the building somewhere, probably tucked in a corner, fast asleep.

John's search is slow and methodical. He starts with the waiting room again and walks slow, Maglite out, checking all the unlocked cabinets and under exam room tables. There's a cattery on the opposite side of the building, well away from the dogs, and even though Stiles has never been a cat fan, John checks there, too. The only thing John finds there is the eerie golden glow of half a dozen pairs of eyes.

That leaves just one corner left, a gray steel door John's never paid much attention to, hidden away at the very back of the building. Swallowing, he opens it in a slow, quiet sweep, unsure of what he'll find. Common sense says this is probably some kind of storage room, , but it doesn't feel as reassuring as John would like it to be. The huge wolf John finds himself staring at doesn't help things, either.

At least, he _thinks_ it's a wolf. Most of the side of the pen he's looking at is cinder block, but John can make out thick black fur on a large head, massive shoulders and paws the size of John's hand. Well, bigger than Stiles' hand at the very least, considering they're side by side on the concrete floor, Stiles having wormed his hand underneath the chain link gate.

"Stiles!" John hisses, hand falling to his sidearm. "Get over here."

The wolf only flicks his ear. Stiles rolls his head. "That's my dad," he says, and gives a nod in John's direction. "He's kind of a fun suck sometimes, but he's the sheriff. Comes with the job, I think." Then, to John. "Come say hi, dad. He won't bite."

A hand lands on John's shoulder before he can disagree and Deaton's gently guiding him into the room. Now that John has a better view, he can see the face head-on ( _definitely_ a wolf) and a stark white bandage wrapped around the wolf's midsection. It gives John a sparing glance, but quickly turns back to Stiles, nudging his fingers with its nose. The size of it, the flash of sharp white teeth, makes John's heart stutter and he takes a step toward Stiles on instinct.

"Stiles," John says, his voice low, like the wolf won't hear or understand him if he talks quiet enough. "Please get away from the massive wolf that could bite your fingers off."

Stiles snorts. "He's cool, dad. Watch." He doesn't wait for confirmation and John watches in a sick combination of fascination and terror when Stiles pats the wolf's paw, then strokes its muzzle. For its part, the wolf seems to lean into it, almost like a cat, letting Stiles reach higher.

It isn't until John realizes Stiles is scratching a wolf right between the eyes that he barks out Stiles' name and bears down on the shoulder under his hand. Everybody freezes, including the wolf, and it takes forever, but Stiles' hand does make it onto the other side of the gate and into his lap looking none the worse for wear. His face is different story, though, a mix of anger and regret.

Deaton breaks the silence, rescuing John from having to come up with an apology he isn't sure he'd mean. "Sheriff, we need to discuss Saffron's care?" He lays a hand on John's shoulder to guide him through the door, but John still has a hold of Stiles and Stiles isn't budging.

"Please can I stay, dad? He won't hurt me." His voice is so soft, his shoulders all hunched in on himself. John wants to cave, but the wolf spikes all of John's parental instincts. Even though it, too, seems to be giving John the sad eyes. That might work with Stiles, but John will not be won over by a wolf. He won't.

John sighs, "Stiles."

"He's quite tame, sheriff, I can assure you," Deaton says, startling John away from the wolf's baleful gaze.

"How can you be sure?"

Deaton gestures at the bandages. "Arrow in the gut. He let me bring him in without a fight. He's been here a few weeks and has been the perfect patient."

"So then why is he sequestered out here? Alone?" John tries to ignore Stiles' quiet, belligerent "yeah."

"Because it was the only cage large enough. I usually store the food and blankets in here. I had to move them out to make room."

John wants to trust him. Wants to be able to trust Stiles' instincts, too, but finds it hard to put so much faith in an animal roughly the size of a pony, with wicked teeth and sharper reflexes. But Deaton senses John's indecision and motions him away with a nod of his head.

"Hands stay out of the cage," John says, giving Stiles' shoulder a parting squeeze.

John doesn't have much confidence that Stiles will do as he's told, but the bright smile on Stiles' face almost makes it worth it.

: : :

It takes about half an hour for Deaton to go through the diagnosis and treatment options, but John sort of tunes out after the word cancer, focusing more on the low buzz in his ears instead of words like surgery and radiation. It's not that John doesn't care, it's that he _can't_ care, both monetarily and emotionally. While Deaton rattles of post-biopsy care instructions, John is already making plans for Saffron's retirement, for finding her replacement, for how to break it to Stiles.

"She'll have to stay for a day or so, to rest and recover," Deaton says, wrapping up his spiel.

John nods, still shell-shocked, and tired to boot, and gestures toward the back of the building. "I'll just...get Stiles then." Thankfully, Deaton doesn't follow him.

The supply room is silent, now, and John isn't surprised. It's been a long day and they're edging into Stiles' usual bedtime. And while John would like to find the small mound of red hoodie and blue jeans adorable, Stiles has, predictably, slipped his hand underneath the gate again. This time, though, the wolf's paw rests on top of it, and its massive head on top of that. An ear twitches at John's approach, but that's it.

John drops to a crouch on a sigh and looks it in the eye. "You are going to be a pain in my ass, aren't you boy?" The wolf gives him a sleepy blink in reply.

"I've broken tougher." Stiles' dead weight isn't easy to manipulate, but John manages to scoop him up, using his chin to keep Stiles' wobbly head from ruining John's balance. Once he's vertical again, John carefully jostles Stiles into a better hold. Of course, the movement wakes Stiles enough for him to make himself more comfortable and nestle his forehead into John's neck.

"C'n we keep 'im?" Stiles murmurs, slow and raspy.

John presses a kiss to Stiles' forehead. "We cannot keep a wolf, Stiles." He pitches his voice low, his eyes on the wolf, but makes sure the thread of authority is obvious.

Stiles yawns, a jaw-cracking thing, and smacks his lips. His hand finds the empty space over John's heart and rests there, small and heavy and warm. "So lonely,"

Stiles slurs the words enough that John can't totally make them out the ones that trail away, so he doesn't know if Stiles means the wolf, John, or himself.

: : :

They pick up Saffron two days later, Stiles quieter than usual, gripping tight to John's hand as they walk back to the exam room. Stiles stops just short of stepping over the threshhold, his eyes darting around the room, landing on anything but Saffron, relaxed and panting, on the exam table. John tries to lead him forward, but Stiles resists.

In a small, breathless voice, Stiles asks, "Can I go see the wolf, dad? Please?" His eyes are wide and he seems to be breathing harder, through his mouth instead of his nose, like the therapist taught them. John turns to kneel in front of Stiles, to get down on his level and give him something to focus on, and prepares to disappoint his son yet again, but he sees Deaton first, standing down the hall, just outside the kennel door. He gives John a sharp nod, and John sighs, defeated.

"You can see it, but-" he taps a finger against Stiles' chest. "You let Dr. Deaton prop the door open so I can hear you if something happens."

" _Dad_."

"And no touching this time. Stiles, I mean it." Stiles rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of a grin teasing the corners of his mouth and John can feel the anticipation humming underneath Stiles' skin. He's not sure avoidance is healthy right now, but seeing Stiles all but tear down the hallway toward the storage room helps ease the pain in his chest a little. Saffron, once John reaches her, licks his wrist in understanding.

: : :

John has more questions than he thought he would, wanting to cover all the bases for Saffron's treatment. There are several deputies who want first dibs at her, plus Margie at the reception desk, but John wants to make sure they're aware of what that will entail. John cares about and respects his deputies, but Saffron deserves only the best, and he's going to do his utmost to make sure she gets it.

After an hour of going through everything, including watching her sulk while Deaton adjusts her Elizabethan collar, they load her into the cruiser. John shuts the door behind her and turns back to the building, stifling a yawn. "What are the chances Stiles hasn't wormed his way into that wolf's cage?" he says to Deaton, giving him a knowing look.

"Pardon me for speaking out of turn, sheriff, but it seems Stiles has formed something of an attachment in a short amount of time."

John sighs. "Kind of hard to miss, I suppose."

"If I may make a suggestion?"

"Suggestions never hurt anybody," John says, hands slipping into his pockets.

"I could use somebody to help feed the animals at night. Stiles could be a big help. It could give him something to focus on, other than the grief. Give him a purpose?"

John blows out a breath and studies the ground at his feet. It sounds like a good idea in theory, but then he thinks back to their last few months with Claudia; Stiles bringing her food and water, helping her down the stairs and out to the back porch. Doting on her almost as much as John, whenever he could, in between homework and school. Part of John wonders if what Stiles needs right now is a break, to figure out how to be a kid again. Or if maybe it's too late for that.

He can't make the decision for Stiles, though, and Deaton seems to understand that. He nods and waves John back into the building, following several steps behind until they reach the storage room. The kennel is quiet, this time of night, so he can hear Stiles' voice carry from a few feet away, telling the wolf about something that happened at school.

"—'cuz Jackson's a butthead, but then I gave her my green crayon and, oh my gosh, she _smiled_ at me. ME! I can't even. She's just. Perfect," Stiles sighs. "Her smile is perfect and her hair is perfect and everything about her is perfect. Harley thought I was overreacting, but she's got this epic crush on Taylor she thinks I don't know about, so she can suck it."

Stiles is splayed out on the floor when John gets there, arms tucked under his head. He turns toward the wolf and makes a small, curious sound. "I wonder if you had a Lydia. I bet you did. You're so big and brave. Handsome, probably, to lady wolves. I bet she loved you back, though, right? And you did all the things that wolf couples do? Like, I don't know, go for baths in the lake and hunt rabbits. Or deer? You're pretty big, so you probably went for the bigger stuff, huh?" Stiles rolls over onto his stomach to get closer and that's when he sees his dad.

"I didn't touch him, I swear," he says immediately, his face turning pink. He shrinks in on himself again and backs away from the cage. The wolf sighs, giving John a very deliberate side-eye.

John huffs a laugh and makes his way over to Stiles. The wolf watches him the whole way, even as John tries to slide down the wall to sit down next to Stiles. John's utility belt makes it awkward and his knees remind him he's on the wrong side of forty now, but Stiles snuggling in close makes it worth it. "Dr. Deaton has an offer he'd like to make you," John says into Stiles fuzzy buzz cut.

"What kind of offer?" Stiles says, sounding both dubious and hopeful.

Deaton takes that as his cue to drop into a crouch next to the wolf's cage. "I was telling your dad how I could use somebody to help feed the animals at night. Do you think you could do it?"

Stiles is silent for a minute, still, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. "How often would I have to come?" he asks.

"As often or as little as you like," Deaton counters. "But only once a day. We wouldn't want your schoolwork to suffer."

Stiles seems to mull that over, his arm tightening around John's stomach. "Can I— Does that mean him, too? The wolf, I mean?"

Deaton looks to John for the answer and so does the wolf. At least Deaton's face doesn't give away anything. The wolf, on the other hand, looks almost hopeful, with his big green eyes and sadly slanting eyebrows. Even his ears look droopy and pathetic. John rolls his eyes and gives Stiles a shake. "Only if Dr Deaton supervises."

Stiles' body jolts, no doubt him wanting to do a victory dance, but he manages to hold it in, and John gives him a smile Stiles can't see.

"We're gonna have to give him a name, y'know," Stiles says instead, and he eases his way out of John's hold, his face so bright and happy, John can almost ignore the nagging feeling of _what did I just get us into_.

: : :

John sticks around, the first week or so. It isn't that he doesn't trust Dr Deaton or Stiles, but rather than he doesn't trust the wolf. His mouth looks big enough to fit Stiles' head. Anybody would have a hard time trusting that.

It's refreshing watching Stiles, though, too. Especially with the puppies, trying to lick any scrap of bare skin they can find, their butts all wiggly-wobbly. With their front paws on Stiles' legs, their hind legs can't find purchase on the floor and they slip-slide all around Stiles' feet. Once or twice, John almost calls out a warning, but Stiles makes sure to take care, cupping them under their round little bellies to set them to rights, checking under his feet to make sure he hasn't missed one that he might step on. It took a while for John and Claudia to teach Stiles to be more aware of himself and his surroundings, but with all the machines Claudia was hooked up to in the end, it was necessary. Seeing Stiles use it now makes something in John's chest tighten, the air from his lungs stuck somewhere in the back of his throat.

Stiles uses that same vigilance with the wolf, taking careful steps over its paws to get to its dishes. The wolf watches Stiles, but makes no move toward him, except for the occasional ear twitch or loud, gusty breath. After, once John makes sure the cage is securely locked, Stiles spends a few more minutes in the storage room, telling the wolf about his day. John had sort of forgotten what it was like, hearing Stiles ramble on about his teachers and the other students. It feels like another step closer to normalcy, to hear all the familiar names again, to know what Stiles is getting up to during the day. Even if John is hearing it secondhand.

By the end of the second week, John is almost comfortable enough that he leaves Stiles alone while he talks to Deaton. With the door propped open, of course.

"So," John says, "you think you'd like to keep him around? It seems to, uh, help. Him, I mean" Inasmuch as Stiles is more animated right after coming home. It dulls not long after dinner, though, with the reminders of Claudia all around them, her apron still hanging inside the pantry, her favorite chair sitting cold and empty in the living room. John wants to attempt to pack things up, but can't yet bring himself to talk to Stiles about it. It's been a year, though. Something should be done.

Deaton levels John with a knowing look. "He's taken to it well. Especially my special guest."

John winces and glances toward the open door. "Yeah, I'm not too thrilled about that."

"I've had him here for weeks, Sheriff. He's never made a single move against me."

"That doesn't mean he won't," John sighs. 

"No, it doesn't."

John eyes slide back to Deaton. "I'm not an idiot, Alan. I can see what's coming."

Deaton shrugs. "You're his father, John. Of course you get the final say."

"You really think it's a good idea to adopt out a wolf?"

"I can't tell you for sure he _is_ a wolf," Deaton reminds him, then continues before John can protest, "but even if he is, he can't stay here forever, and I can't say for sure what the DNR will do."

"He didn't have any identification on him at all?"

Deaton shakes his head. "No, but he knows basic commands. And he was completely docile while I did my preliminary exam. Somebody domesticated him, that much I can tell you."

John nods, trying to fight back the threat of defeat looming, and turns back to the supply room to watch Stiles fall more and more in love with the wolf.

: : :

After a month of training supervised by both Dr Deaton and John, the wolf — name yet to be determined — takes several deep sniffs of the Bronco's interior and steps inside. 


	2. Stiles

The first thing Stiles' dad says when they get home is, "He's not sleeping in your bed."

Stiles' eyes jump from his dad to the wolf and back again. "I don't think he could fit anyway."

"I'm just saying," his dad sighs. His hands tighten on the steering wheel and he mutters, "what was I _thinking_."

"You were thinking that this big guy didn't deserve to waste away in a cage." Stiles reaches back to give the wolf's chin a scratch. "Plus, I think Dr Deaton mind-whammied you."

His dad heaves a sigh. "I wouldn't put it past him." 

After that, it's a mad scramble to get out of the Bronco, Stiles racing for the back to clip a leash on the wolf's collar and then not so much leading as being led to the porch and in the door, the wolf's nose working overtime, dipping into every nook and cranny. Stiles manages to detach himself before he's dragged into the kitchen and retreats to the couch, sinking into his dad's warmth. It takes Stiles a minute to nestle into the sweet spot and he only realizes why after he's settled: it's been months since Stiles felt like it was acceptable to do this, to offer his dad some silent support without the fear of being pushed away in disgust.

"No bed," his dad says again, interrupting Stiles' train of thought. "No couch, no walks without a leash. No going in the backyard on his own. No table food, not too many treats. You have to feed him twice a day and pick up his —"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Stiles cuts in. "We went over this at Dr Deaton's, Dad. I know the rules."

They watch the wolf trot up the stairs before he dad continues. "—poop. Fresh water at all times and _you_ will do the bathing."

Stiles rolls his eyes and drops his head onto the back of the couch. They both sit in silence while listening to the muffled thumps from upstairs. It's only takes a few minutes for the wolf comes back down and settle on the floor next to the couch, muzzle resting on Stiles' shoe.

Stiles looks up at his dad and gives him a small, genuine smile. "It's gonna be great dad, you'll see."

"And if it's not," his dad says with too much false cheer, "I do have that rifle.

Stiles groans and elbows his dad in the ribs. On the floor, the wolf inches closer to Stiles' leg.

: : :

The adjustment period goes a lot better than Stiles expected. For one thing, it's hard to forget to feed and water a wolf as tall as Stiles' elbows. For another, the wolf doesn't seem any wilder than he was while locked up at Dr. Deaton's. 

Stiles isn't sure what he'd been expecting once they got the wolf home. It's not like they had room to play or run around on their walks in Dr Deaton's neighborhood. So Stiles thinks maybe he shouldn't be surprised that the wolf isn't into fetch or tug-of-war. Mostly, he seems content to sit next to Stiles while he does his homework or surfs the web. Sometimes, Stiles forgets to chase him off the couch before his dad gets home, and then there's a stern look from his dad and a tiny whine from the wolf, but it's not nearly as bad as it could be.

Halfway into the third week, his dad forgets about the couch rule, anyway.

The only problem Stiles seems to have is picking out a name. As a person stuck with an unpronounceable name, Stiles understands how important it is to get the name right the first time. There's no going back, even if it's only an animal.

He tries out dozens, calling the wolf a hundred different things, none of which feel quite right. All he gets in return is a calm, green-eyed stare, the occasional heavy, huffing breath. Like the wolf is waiting, too, and that he's okay with Stiles taking awhile.

Stiles' dad is less patient, and throws out his own candidates that mostly consist of 60s bands and the occasional fictional cop reference. 

"Neil?"

"No."

"Finn?"

"No." 

"Cougar?"

" _No_."

"Serpico? Huggy Bear!" Stiles gives his dad a flat look. "What? He looks like a bear?"

"Dad, oh my god." Stiles drops his head into his hands and despairs of the parent he's raised. "He looks like a _wolf_. And can we please use references that kids my age would know? I do hope to have friends some day." 

Stiles hasn't heard his dad's wry chuckle in...a long time. It feels good to have it back again.

: : :

Stiles is on the couch with his homework on one side and the dark hulking weight of his wolf on the other. He has a hand on both and is contemplating the problem set of fractions in front of him when he hears his dad shouting from the front door, "Anybody home?"

"Nobody but us chickens!" Stiles yells back on reflex. By the time his dad is done shedding his coat and belt and storing his service weapon in the gun safe, Stiles is three problems in and startles at the hand that lands on his shoulder.

"Is that supposed to be math?" his dad asks, leaning in for a closer look.

Stiles squints down at his paper and grunts. Typically, math doesn't contain so many letters. His mind drifts, sometimes, and Stiles winds up with names scribbled in the margins of his notes or homework. Most of the time, he manages to fix the homework before handing it in.

"Just a few more ideas," Stiles says with a sigh.

"What are today's options?" his dad asks, easing himself into his recliner.

"Nothing worth mentioning," Stile mutters, erasing his answer for the fourth problem. He throws his pencil at his book and tilts his head back. " _Nothing_ is good enough." Underneath his left hand, the wolf heaves a heavy sigh, his breath gusting out hot and damp over Stiles' knee.

"You know he doesn't care what his name is, right? He'll come to whatever you call him."

Stiles claps both hands over the wolf's ears and hisses, "Blasphemy!"

His dad rolls his eyes. "I'm just saying, there's no need to make a federal case of it."

"Says the guy who named _me_."

"That was your mother," his dad reminds him for the umpteenth time.

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Blame the person who's not here to defend herself." It takes a second for Stiles to process what he's just said, and then his hands are glued to his mouth, as if he can take the words back and maybe choke himself with them. His eyes go wide and his blood runs cold and his dad is looking at him with a mixture of pity and relief. It's the first time either of them have spoken of her in almost a year. Of course it would be Stiles to stick his foot in it first.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice so small and hoarse. A cold nose nudges his knee and he reaches for it automatically, palm smoothing back over the velvety muzzle, up over the forehead and back to fist in coarse neck fur. He clings to it until the urge to vomit subsides and his dad shakes his head, eyes bright and glassy.

"It's okay, Stiles. We were always going to mention her eventually. It's—" his dad takes a long, deep breath. "It's good that we do. She deserves that."

A sudden rush of shame and memories has Stiles wanting to melt into his dad's side like he used to, but Stiles is bogged down with text books and his notebook, and his dad is way on the other side of the coffee table, so Stiles sags into the wolf instead, hiding his face in thick fur until the stinging behind his eyes goes away.

He stays that way until he can't breathe, and then he only rolls over onto his back, his legs dangling toward the floor, still. In this position, his ear is pressed against the wolf's side and Stiles can make out the soft lub-dub of a heartbeat. He zones out on it for a bit, unseeing eyes focused on the ceiling. He can imagine his glow-in-the-dark stickers from here; his room’s almost directly above where he is right now, and he can picture the different constellations he directed his dad to replicate in painstaking detail. And then Stiles drifts into memories of the nights he laid in that bed, staring up at the ceiling, not seeing the stars but the characters of the books his mom would read to him, her voice lilting and lovely.

Stiles rolls over onto his side to come face-to-face with the wolf's muzzle. He nudges at the lip until he can see sharp white teeth and traces each point with the tip of his finger. There's something percolating in the back of his mind, dim and nebulous, and the motion of his finger gives Stiles something boring to focus on while his brain works through to the idea's conclusion.

Distantly, Stiles hears his dad say his name, and Stiles waves a hand at him to shush him, his lips starting to curve into a knowing smile.

"Serious," Stiles says, the word catching in his throat to come out as more of a croak. One of the wolf's ears twitch and Stiles' dad's head pops up from where it was resting on one fist.

"What?"

Stiles sits up, his thumb stroking one silky soft ear. "His name is Serious."

His dad squints and scratches at the stubble on his cheek. "As in...Sirius Black?"

"Yes and no." Stiles squirms around until he can get the wolf's — Serious' — head into his lap and continues to stroke over the fur, paying special attention to the spots where Serious tilts into Stiles' hand. "Serious instead of Sirius, because he's kind of ridiculously stoic. For a pet."

"May I remind you, _again_ , not a pet."

"Wild animal, yada yada. You know what I mean."

His dad stands and stretches his arms above his head. "You're lucky I let him in the house."

Stiles tries to give his dad a deep bow from his spot on the couch, but his pile of homework threatens to go down with him and he throws a hand out to stop it. He says instead, "Yes, dear father of mine. Please never let me forget how magnanimous you can be." Stiles sobers as he straightens and his voice pitches low and thick. "I just think, y'know. Mom."

"Yeah kid. I know." It takes his dad a few tries to swallow, and then he's disappearing into the kitchen. "I'm feeling burgers and curly fries for dinner tonight?" he says over the squeaky shriek of their take-out menu drawer.

Stiles bumps his forehead against Serious' and replies, "Sounds perfect! Doesn't it, boy?" He interprets Serious' soft, lolling tongue as agreement.

: : :

As the end of the school year draws to a close, Stiles and Serious have a pattern: a walk before breakfast, feeding time after that, a walk once Stiles gets home from school, then another before bed, with one of Beacon Hills' finest for an after dark escort. Sometimes Harley gets to come along, too, or they swing by her house to draw her out. Walking with her, talking about their teachers and stupid Jackson, is just another step closer to normal.

Once summer rolls around, it's even better. They stay outside as much as possible, inviting Harley over whenever Stiles can, basking in the sun and shade by turns, or the sprinkler if it gets too hot. Serious doesn't enjoy the cool water as much as Stiles and Harley do, but it isn't that big of a deal. Every animal has their quirks. And the important thing is he still lets Stiles and Harley chase him, pink tongue hanging out of Serious' mouth as he gallops around the far edges of the yard. Only after Stiles starts stumbling, his fingers clumsy, trying to pinch the end of Serious' tail, does Serious turn the tables and chase them into the protective shadow of the huge beech tree, pinning Stiles' legs until he flops onto his back in surrender and promptly falls asleep.

It's around the end of June, after a month of watching Serious pace the perimeter of their yard, that an idea starts brewing at the back of Stiles' mind. It used to be tradition for him and his dad to go camping the week before school started. His mom insisted on organizing everything, from sewing his name into all of his clothes to making sure they had proper camping food. It was a nice treat to get out of Beacon Hills, just him and his dad. Playing around in the forest and the stream near their campground. Falling asleep under the stars to the chorus of crickets outside their tent. A diet reduced to beans and Spam and all the s'mores they could eat.

It's been a few years since they went, though. First because of Stiles' mom being sick, and then the distance between them, Stiles feeling too guilty to dare bring it up, to put one more obligation on his dad's shoulders, because Stiles hadn't quite inflicted enough pain yet.

Serious brings it all back, though. Every time his ears perk up and he watches a squirrel bound across the neighbor's yard, or a rabbit that darts in and out of the tree line marking the edge of their property. He's never gone after one, never even tried to disappear into the forest, but the way he's so observant, resting his head on his paws, eyes sharp and searching, his tail giving one half-hearted wag, tugs at something in Stiles' chest.

Stiles squirms close, throws one arm over Serious' neck and starts whispering stories into his ear; about the stream and the fish, how beautiful the stars are at night, what the forest is like and the animals they've seen. For his part, Serious seems attentive, his ears swiveling back and forth every time Stiles brings up the idea, but Stiles isn't an expert on animal body language either. For all he knows, Serious could be thinking, 'You're kinda heavy kid, and you _stink_. Get off me already.' Though he is big enough to shake Stiles if he wanted, so maybe not.

Stiles brings up the camping trip at dinner, after his dad divvies up the Thai and the silverware. "Heeey, dad?"

"Heeey, what?"

"I was thinking —"

"Lord help us."

"— remember those camping trips we used to go on?"

His dad stills, fork frozen in mid-air. "What about them?"

Stiles winces at the throb of doubt in his dad's voice. He used to have game, used to be better at plying people for the things he wanted. It's disappointing to know those skills can go rusty after all. "I thought maybe we could go again this year," Stiles says in a rush, the words aimed at his carton of orange chicken.

His dad drops his fork into the carton of shrimp curry and sets them both on the table. "I don't— are— what brought this on?"

"I was just, y'know, Serious and I were outside. Doing things. And we haven't been for awhile and I thought maybe Serious would like to —"

"No."

The word sounds like a clap, too sharp for Stiles' ears, and he jerks in his seat, shrinking away from the tone. His dad slumps on a sigh. When he speaks, his voice is softer and he reaches out for Stiles' knee. "I'm sorry, kid, but we can't take him camping with us."

His dad's gentler tone is too reminiscent of the voice he and Stiles' mom used to deliver any kind of cancer news. It settles wrong in his gut and Stiles fights against it, his attitude souring. "I don't see why not. He's a wolf, wolves belong in the wild." Stiles' dad gives him a flat look. Stiles snaps, "What?"

"Think about what you just said." Stiles replays it over in his mind, but there's nothing that snags his attention. His dad sighs. "Serious is a wolf. What do you think will happen once he gets in the forest?"

"He'll be able to chase small animals and splash around in something that's not made of porcelain? Maybe dig a hole or two?"

"And what if, in this chasing, he gets lost? Or runs into a park ranger? Or some idiot hunter-wannabe with a gun and a trigger finger?"

Stiles rolls his eyes and takes a bite of his food. "Serious is smarter than that, dad," he says after he swallows. "He would never get lost, and even if he wandered off too far, he'd know how to find me."

His dad sighs. "That's making a lot of assumptions, kid."

Stiles tries to hold back the trembling in his hands, the prickle of angry tears behind his eyes. "When has he ever proved me wrong?"

"There's always a first time," his dad snaps back.

"You've never liked him! You are being totally unfair!" Stiles realizes he's shouted the words only after he's panting, food tossed onto the table. It feels good to be angry, to have the blood throbbing in his temples and fingertips. Serious appears in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, head tilted to one side. Stiles wishes Serious would close the distance, lean his reassuring weight against Stiles' hip, but he remains where he is, attention drifting between Stiles and his dad by turns.

"Sit down," his dad orders. Stiles tries to resist the heavy grip on his shoulder, but it's too firm, his dad too determined. Stiles' breath rushes out of him and his knees collapse under the weight. "I understand you're disappointed, so I'll give you the choice: we can go camping without Serious, or we don't go at all. I will support whatever you decide.

With his eyes stuck on the tips of his shoes, Stiles asks, "What will happen to Serious if we go?"

His dad's face voice turns thoughtful. "I suppose I can ask Dr Deaton to watch him again. It would only be for a few days."

Even the idea of it breaks Stiles' heart. Being locked up in a cage when Stiles wanted to give him more freedom is the worst kind of choice. It turns his chest tight and his fingers numb, and he has one fleeting, childish wish that he could kick his dad in the shins and run upstairs to his room. Instead, he shoves his chair back and stands up. "Then we don't go."

"You don't have to decide tonight."

"I'm not putting him back in that cage," Stiles spits out. "That's the exact opposite of what I wanted."

"Stiles," his dad sighs, reaching for Stiles' arm. Stiles twists away and rounds the opposite end of the table to get to Serious and then the stairs. "For what it's worth," his dad says, "I _am_ sorry."

Stiles chokes on a laugh. "Tell it to Serious."

In his room, they both flop down onto the bed, Serious pinning Stiles' arm to snuffle at Stiles' chin and cheek, the wet tracks trailing down his temples. His tongue is a soft, fleeting touch, gentle and tickling. Stiles fists his hand in Serious' neck and sighs.

: : :

The new school year brings about new changes; sixth grade meaning a whole new school, Stiles once again starting from the bottom of the food chain. It's twice the kids and twice the walking, with only Harley to keep him company. For the most part, their schedules line up, enough for Stiles not to want to crawl out of his skin.

A new school also means new kids to get used. Jackson's still there and still as big a douche as ever, but now he's got buddies — a tall, quiet guy named Danny and a hulking monolith called Greenberg. Stiles doesn't want to know what it'll feel like getting slammed into his locker by Greenberg, but he's already resigned to finding out.

The surprise is their interest in a new kid Stiles has never seen before. A soft, quiet guy named Scott. He looks like the world's most innocent, understanding kid with a breathing problem to boot. Stiles doesn't envy Scott's chances for survival in a world where Jackson Whittemore is king.

At least Stiles has Serious to go home to. 

It takes a month for Stiles and Serious to settle into the new school routine, but it feels good. It almost feels okay to be home alone while his dad works. It makes it easier for Stiles to alternate doing his homework with eating Cheetos and playing a round of Mario Kart with Harley. His dad isn't there to complain about the mess and Serious couldn't tattle even if he wanted to.

Everything is great until it isn't; until Stiles' doorbell rings and he opens it to Deputy Tara's grim face, her partner still in the cruiser, staring off into the distance, away from the front door.

"Hi," Stiles says, surprised, a little. It's been awhile since he's seen Tara. He tries to remember when he was last at the station on her shift, but it's been too long.

She sighs his name, her mouth turning down, and sinks to her knees. This gives Stiles the height advantage and, for one wild second, Stiles makes a mental note that he’ll need some new pants soon if he doesn't want to get ridiculed for wearing highwaters. 

He focuses his attention back on Tara, on the strain at the corner of her eyes, the way her mouth is pressed shut. Her hands are fists on her knees, the skin over her knuckles a paler shade of brown. Stiles feels an urge to smooth out the furrow between her eyebrows with his thumb, but he can't seem to move his hands or his arms. His entire body feels numb, really, including his capacity to blink and breathe and move the blood in his veins. Except...his heart's kind of racing, thundering along in his rib cage. He's afraid if he glances down, he'll see the outline of it through his shirt, trying to thump its way out of his chest.

"He's okay," she says, her voice sounding very far away. "He's in the hospital, though. We're going to take you to him." She reaches out for his wrist, but he flinches back, hard enough that he stumbles into the weight of Serious at his side, ready to dash out of the house. Stiles fists his hand in Serious' neck ruff and zeros in on its texture, how thick it is between his fingers, until he can almost block out the idea of his dad hurt in any way; shot or stabbed or hit by a car. 

Tara looks between them, Serious and Stiles, her eyes turning sad. "He can't come with, buddy. Only you." 

"I know that," Stiles spits back. "I'm not a baby. Just —" he pushes away from Serious and reaches for his house key on the banquet. "Hurry up and take me. Use the sirens. You know he would want you to." The last thing he sees before he closes the door is Serious' face, the worried tilt of his head and his sad green eyes, begging for answers. Stiles focuses on that as he crosses the yard to the cruiser and slides into the backseat.

: : :

The hospital is worse than Stiles remembers; It's been almost two years since he was here last, not to mention this is a completely different department. The nurses are all new, as are the patients. The waiting room is cold and boring, and the old guy sitting next to him won't stop watching Fox News Channel. 

What's worse, the cardiologist, Dr Santos, isn't thrilled with having to explain the intricacies of heart disease to an almost-eleven year old, but Stiles gives her a death glare and Tara backs him up. There is no other extended family to explain it to, anyway. 

Dr Santos tosses around words like 'cardiac event' and 'partial blockage' like Stiles won't know what they mean. 'Hypertension' and 'myocardial infarction' are less familiar, but Stiles figures that's what Google's for. He makes mental notes of all the terms he thinks are the most important to research, then asks the question he's asked of at least half a dozen nurses: "When can I see him?"

Her answer is the same as all the others. Testing, stabilization, blah blah blah. Stiles wants to punch her, if only to speed things along, but Tara has her hand on his shoulder, fingers digging into the bone. Stiles wonders if it's because he's given away some tell of what he wants to do, or if it's to hold herself back from doing the same thing.

Either way, all they can do is wait. It would be easier if Stiles had thought to bring his laptop with, but his mind had gone straight to worst case scenario; blood everywhere, doctors and nurses rushing around with gauze and tubes, needles of every size. He should've known better. All they ever did with his mom was wait.

The reappearance of Dr Santos has Stiles out of his chair and meeting her halfway. She looks less resigned now, to having to deal with a kid, but her words are still mostly directed at Tara. Just when Stiles thinks he's going to kick the doctor in the shin on general principle, she's turning back the way she came and Tara's got both hands on Stiles' shoulders, angling him toward her.

"I'm gonna go talk to him first, okay?" Stiles' mouth opens to refuse, but she stays him with her cool fingers cupping his cheek. "I have to go home, kiddo. Let me sort things with him, make sure he's lucid enough to realize you're here, and then you can go in." 

It hits Stiles then, the sad look in her eyes. Stiles' dad is the only sheriff she's ever worked under, unlike some of the other deputies. This is almost as much of an emotional hit for her as it is for him. He closes his eyes and nods his head and returns to his seat. 

It feels like Tara's gone forever, long enough for Stiles to feel too small in the waiting room, too big for his skin, hyper aware of everything around him; from the squeaky wheel on the gurney down the hall to the incessant buzz of the clock above his head. Stiles is so attuned to any and all noises, his eyes squeezed so tight, he tries to imagine he can hear the reassuring beat of his dad's heart. Really, though, it's his own pulse in his head, throbbing between his ears and in the hinge of his jaw. He has to force himself to stop his grinding teeth, at least until a hand on his shoulder. His head jerks up, mouth falling open.

"He's going to be okay, Stiles," Tara says, dropping into a crouch. Her hands are warm over his knobby knees, stilling the pendulum swing of his feet. "He just needs a little rest, a slight lifestyle change, but he's awake and wants to see you."

"Can you stay a little bit longer?"

She offers him a warm smile and gives his leg an affectionate squeeze. "I've got a few minutes, but Yancy's coming to get you for the night, okay?"

Stiles nods, falling into her chest to wrap his arms around her neck. Tara isn't his mom — doesn't smell like her or feel like her or sound like her — but he's suddenly, fiercely glad she was the one tasked with bringing him here.

"Are you ready?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, voice sounding a little croaky. He shakes his head at her offered hand and takes a deep breath, facing the door down with every one of his four feet eight inches, Tara a silent, steady sentry behind him. It seems like it should take longer than seven steps to reach the threshhold, but Stiles doesn't have time to think about it once he's opening the door, pushing until a flimsy paisley curtain gives way to the lump of his dad's feet .

It's another eleven steps to the bed, around the curtain, past the bathroom, to the array of the machines and his dad looking so tired and small. Wires and tubes criss-cross every which way, stretching from his chest and his finger, his forearm and underneath his nose. All the while, a monitor beeps away, drowning out Stiles' pulse, the words his dad's mouth forms, even the background noise in the hallway.

Everything goes still after that; all Stiles can focus on is the dreary, monotonous tone. His breathing falls into the same rhythm, short, shallow breaths that leave Stiles' chest tight and his vision narrow. He takes a staggering step back, as if putting more space between him and the bed will gives his lungs the proper room to expand, but Tara's still there and he bounces off of her, pushing away her hands, reaching for the door.

Being in the hallway doesn't help. There are wheelchairs and equipment in the way, nurses and doctors bustling by. Everything is a bright white blur, piercing his eyes the same way his dad's heart monitor won't stop ringing in his ears. There's a low, thick sound underneath it all, the feeling of something tugging at his hoodie, but he ignores it, wiggles himself free of his sleeves and stumbles forward, one hand pressed to his chest, the other clinging to the railing along the wall.

He follows it until its abrupt end: a thick, heavy door that he pushes through by sheer force of will. It opens into a stairwell and Stiles follows it, tripping down down down, one wobbly step at a time. There's a tingling in his ears and his chest, his legs and feet jello-like, but he presses on, glad for the cool, still air and lack of people or anything, really.

At the bottom is another door, heavy and harder to open since he has to pull. He can't get a grip on it with his sweaty palms, and his hoodie is back wherever it fell, so he tucks himself into a corner instead, his hot forehead pressed to the cool brick wall. Now that he can focus on himself instead of getting away, it's harder to breathe. The sight of his dad, so small and weak, keeps flashing in his head, until Stiles' lungs feel tiny and useless, his hands clenching at his shirt to pull it away from his chest, as if that will help.

His eyes go next, a dark, insistent shadow creeping in around the edges until all Stiles can see is the scuffed toes of his shoes and his Batman socks, the freckle above his ankle. The sweat only makes it worse, blurring everything until it's just series of smudges, and Stiles wonders, vaguely, if anybody would find him here if he passed out.

It's cold in the stairway, without his hoodie, but there's something colder tickling at his armpit, careful but insistent. Stiles squeezes his eyes closed and shrinks closer to the wall, unwilling to face the person yet unable to run again. "Go away, go away, go away," he whispers between wheezing breaths, his arms wrapped tight around himself, but the presence remains, warm and solid. Just as Stiles tries to take a breath to scream or yell, anything to get the person away from him, he hears a soft whuff and feels the warm gust of it over his chilled forearm. There's another quiet sound a second later, a feathery brush of something against Stiles' wrist, and another chilly nudge, to his fingers this time.

Stiles unwraps them from his arm, one by one, to feel the tickle of fur between his fingertips. He tells himself it's a hallucination, something his mind made up to get him to calm down, but it's also kind of working, too. Maybe?

Serious being there doesn't get Stiles to open his eyes or his lungs to work properly right away, but it gives him something to focus on, other than the whine of machines and the muffled drone of the hospital's loudspeaker. It gives him a rhythm to breathe with and a heat to lean into, something for his fingers to cling to.

: : :

Officer Yancy finds Stiles eventually, curled up in the corner, still gasping, a little twitchy. He shudders when somebody tries to pick him up, but he doesn't have any energy left to fight the hold, to struggle against the chest under his ear. He thinks he should feel ridiculous, being carried around like a little kid, but mostly he wants his dad. His mom, too, but that...can't happen.

Stiles doesn't pay attention to the trip back through the hospital, the hush that falls around them as they approach, then starts back up once they're past. It's a small town, everybody remembers how Stiles' mom died, most of the hospital staff know who Stiles is, there are no secrets in Beacon Hills.

His dad's room is full of people, nurses and cops, Dr Santos. They all fall silent at Stiles' arrival; he keeps his eyes tightly shut to avoid their pity or anger. His dad, at least, sounds relieved, breathing out, "Stiles, my god, give him to me," all in a rush, and Officer Yancy does. It's a tight fit, the two of them in a tiny hospital bed, and Stiles should, probably, be embarrassed about it, curling into his dad's arms like he's five years old again, but it doesn't matter, he doesn't care. All he wants is for his dad to be okay again.

"Sorry I scared you," he mumbles into his dad's gown. "It was just—"

Stiles' dad presses his cheek to Stiles' head, "I know kid, it's okay. I'm gonna be okay. We're fine."

Right there, in his dad's arms, with his dad's heart thumping in his ear, Stiles almost believes it.

: : :

Everything resets in the morning.

Stiles startles awake hard enough to rouse his dad, and after a bit of careful wire negotiation, Stiles slips into the bathroom with a minimum of fuss. There's a nurse in the room once he's done, the curly-haired one from the day before, taking his dad's blood pressure and temperature. They're talking about something that Stiles can't quite make out, but she manages to give Stiles a knowing once over, anyway.

"I'm gonna go get some breakfast," Stiles blurts out around a wide yawn, needing fresh air and to not be under his dad's scrutiny this early in the morning.

"Not necessary," his dad says, "Already ordered us something. It's on the way up. You get to stick around."

Stiles slumps in a chair and waits, trying not to think about his episode from the night before and the heavy, comforting weight of a wolf that couldn't possibly have been there.

: : :

Between a subpar breakfast and all the hospital staff traipsing through the room, the day goes by in a blur. The morning nurse, Melissa, brings a deck of cards, a coloring book, and crayons with her when she delivers breakfast, and that helps, but only a little. Stiles is sure she means well — at least she acknowledges Stiles' presence, unlike some of the other nurses, and wants to make things easier — but Stiles has never been into coloring books all that much. And he's kind of past the age for it, anyway.

The cards are useful, though. He and his dad haven't played Gin Rummy since...before. They're both a little rusty at first, perhaps a little blurry-eyed with the memories, especially with the stench of antiseptic underscoring everything, but it's good. Tolerable. Stiles even manages a laugh after his dad accuses him, fondly, of cheating.

The afternoon is the hard part; the push to get his dad released. It's all paperwork and tests and lectures from the doctor, most of which Stiles tunes out before his brain shorts out. Melissa stops in at one point, for a vitals check and to collect their empty lunch tray, and catches Stiles' eye with a quick tilt of her head.

He looks to his dad for silent permission, and follows her all the way to the nurse's desk, across the way from the waiting area. Stiles notices a lone boy there, tucked into a chair with his legs crossed, a text book spread open before him. He seems familiar, but all Stiles can make out is the floppy hair on his head, bent over as he is, and the iconic S on his blue t-shirt. Stiles suppresses a groan.

"I thought maybe you were getting kind of bored in there," Melissa says, once she's taken care of the tray. She drops to a crouch, her hand warm on Stiles' hip.

Stiles nods. "Are we ever gonna get to go home?" he wheedles.

She says, "Soon, buddy, I promise," and gives him a squeeze. "But I was wondering if you could do me a favor, first?"

"That depends," Stiles says with narrowed eyes. "If you're looking for somebody to answer the phones, I'm gonna expect recompense."

Melissa's eyebrows arch. "Recompense?"

Stiles bristles. "I know what it means."

Melissa's smile widens. "I'm sure you do, honey, but that's not what I had in mind." With her hand still on his shoulder, she urges him to turn around, so he's facing the waiting area. She leans in, close enough for her hair to tickle his ear, and says, "See that kid over there? The one with all the hair?"

Stiles nods.

"That's my son, Scott. We're new here. Think you could introduce yourself? So he'll know one person at school?"

Stiles sighs. There are strict laws in kid-dom. And once you're ten, parents setting up any kind of meet cute is strictly verboten, unless you want to be known as That Kid for the rest of your school career, and probably beyond, to class reunions. That's not a thing kids forget easily.

Except, if he doesn't, he only has his dad's hospital room and the doctor's droning lecture to go back to. And the kid clearly needs to be re-educated about which superhero reigns supreme and which ones are lame ass goodie-goodies.

He's nodding before he knows it, and Melissa presses a kiss to the back of his head. "I owe you one, kiddo."

"Reese's cups for life!" he calls over his shoulder.

: : :

Scott, as it turns out, isn't so bad to hang out with. In the two hours they spend together that first day, Stiles learns that Scott (and his mom) moved here from Portland, only wears the Superman shirt because his dad hates it, doesn't do so well in math, and thinks he's pretty good at Halo.

By the time Stiles is pushing his dad's wheelchair toward the elevators, Stiles, Harley, and Scott have a date to put that claim to the test.

: : :

It's not like Stiles forgets about the heart incident entirely, but between school, taking care of Serious, and hanging out with Scott whenever he can, it slips to the back of his mind with very little effort, until the time comes for his dad's first post-hospital stay check-up, two weeks later.

"Remember," his dad says as Stiles eases out of the cruiser, "Mrs McCall will be picking you up today. Hopefully my appointment shouldn't run too long."

Stiles nods at him, but doesn't remember what the appointment's for until he's in his desk for homeroom. He tries to focus on his unfinished homework, but the words seem to linger in his ears, through all of his morning classes, his chest getting tighter and tighter, until it's time for lunch and Stiles feels claustrophobic in the giant cafeteria, everybody moving in slow motion while Stiles' heart beats quadruple time behind his ribs.

Stumbling away from the crowd of people, Stiles barrels into the first door he finds. The room is windowless but empty, with cool tiled walls that feel refreshing against Stiles' forehead. He tucks himself into a corner and squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on anything but his dad. Of course it backfires, the possibilities of his dad's health spinning out in his head until a shadow drops in front of him and a low, soothing voice tries to calm Stiles' breathing by counting out loud.

He doesn't know how long it takes until he has the courage to open his eyes, sure that there's going to be a crowd watching his meltdown, but it's only the school nurse in front of him. In the girls bathroom. Stiles wants to giggle, but lack of air is still an issue.

Seconds later, his dad comes barreling through the door, but the nurse holds him back before he can dash in to scoop Stiles up.

"Ask him if you can touch him, first," she says. "He might not be ready, yet."

It's hard to believe his dad will listen, and he even gets in another step forward, but then he really looks at Stiles, and stills. "Son? Are you okay?"

Stiles wipes at his heated cheeks and is surprised when his hands come away wet. He stares down at them, blinking, still breathing with the nurse's rhythm, and shakes his head. "I don't know."

Once they get home, the doctor appointment rescheduled for another day, Serious doesn't leave Stiles' side for the rest of the night.

: : :

It happens only one more time before Stiles' dad decides they're going back to see Stiles' therapist. He hasn't seen Dr Green since his ADHD diagnosis, but each attack is a little worse than the last, and that first one was freaky enough.

"Panic attacks," she says at the end of their third session, with both Stiles and his dad sitting in the wingback chairs of Dr Green's office.

"Panic attacks?" Stiles' dad echoes. "But he's just a kid."

"A child who's just lost his mother," Dr Green says gently. "And, if I may, a father who is dealing with some health issues of his own?"

Stiles has never seen someone chastise his dad like that, and wants to be awed about it now, but he makes the mistake of looking at his dad's face. Regret, sorrow, fear. All of it aimed at Stiles, enough to make his gut churn. Stiles returns his attention to his shoes.

"What can we do?" Stiles' dad asks.

"I know you aren't fond of medicating the problem, but we do have some options. I think bi-weekly appointments could help, as well."

Stiles' dad sighs while Stiles struggles to fight back hot tears. "Whatever he needs."

: : :

Stiles doesn't go looking for information. At first. It's just— his dad's hospital packet is right there on the side table, next to the empty bottle of beer. It's only natural for Stiles to pick it up, along with the bottle, to tidy up the living room. And then to make sure the papers are all in order, stacked together nice and neat. Taking his time only means the job is done properly, that's all.

"And you can't prove otherwise," he whispers to Serious' judging face.

Leaving his dad asleep in the recliner, Stiles and Serious make their way up to Stiles' bed, where he curls up in the large, protective arc of Serious' body. Stiles' hands tremble and he stares at the folder for a long while before he can bring himself to open it. He focuses on Serious' body heat and the thump of his heart for courage.

It feels a little like trying to cram a semester of information into his head all in one night, but Stiles reads every last bit of paper, from the diet his dad should be on to the side effects of his medication. At some point, he even drags out a notebook — Geography — to make a note of the questions he wants to ask Google.

It's one o'clock before Stiles pays any mind to his drooping eyelids or Serious' snoring. He's not done with all the information yet, but his three and a half pages of notes are a good place to start.

: : :

Changing his dad's entire lifestyle is not an easy project to undertake, but with Scott, Harley, and Serious' help, Stiles feels confident he can make things happen.

He starts off with forcing extra junk food onto Harley, Scott, and Serious on game nights. They all look dubious, Scott even tries to use the ol', "won't this ruin my dinner?" routine a few times, but Stiles is earnest and has been perfecting his sad puppy eyes. Harley never eats what Stiles gives her right away, but does stuff it into her bag, so at least it's not in the house. Scott folds like a cardboard box every time. Serious is more stoic about it, taking each proffered Oreo, each Dorito, one item at a time, but Stiles catches the way Serious goes to town on licking his teeth clean, the sheets or carpet underneath him, too, collecting any stray crumbs with his tongue.

While he's doing that, Stiles uses the rest of his free time to search for heart healthy recipes, scrolling through blog after blog, checking out the better known health sites, even resorting to message boards if he has to. He doesn't stop until he has a binder full of recipes and list after list of superfoods his dad should be eating.

The grocery shopping is a little harder to negotiate. It's not like Stiles can go on his own, and trying to steer his dad away from the junk food aisles is next to impossible. Stiles' only choice is to carve out a corner of his closet where he can stash the junk, little by little, and hope his dad won't notice.

The worst is trying to change from eating out four days a week to only once, or none at all if Stiles plays it right. Usually they only eat out after a long shift, or on his dad's rare overnight shift, when his dad is either too tired or too rushed to cook a proper dinner. Now that he's a little bit older, Stiles has the time to cook, but the problem is, Stiles has never shown any inclination in wanting to cook, ever. Except during the holidays when he helped his mom with the snickerdoodles and cherrywinks.

Stiles barrels on anyway, determined to bluff his way through any objections his dad might think of. That confidence only lasts long enough for Stiles' dad to come into the kitchen, uniform shirt unbuttoned, and freeze in his tracks. Stiles stills, too, with a salmon fillet dangling in mid-air.

"What are you doing?" his dad asks carefully, taking in the whole scene: a stack of dishes in the sink, a bowl of salad on the table, surrounded by dishes and silverware, two glasses of ice water, and two other pots on the stove, along with the skillet of fish. Serious is stretched out along the far wall, keeping watch over everything with lidded eyes.

"I am making dinner," Stiles says, stilted. He drops the salmon into the olive oil and winces at the hiss.

His dad points a finger at him. "You don't cook."

"I'm trying a new hobby."

"You don't like fish."

"I could!"

His dad blows out a breath. "I don't have time for this, Stiles. You're cleaning up this whole mess by yourself. I'm telling Annie, too. She's not allowed help."

Stiles startles. "Is it time to go already?"

" _Yes_ , Stiles." His dad pulls him into a hug and presses a kiss to his head.

"Will you at least take some salad with you?" Stiles mumbles against his dad's chest.

"I will take some salad. But don't think we're not talking about this later."

Free of his dad's arms, Stiles sags a little. "Yeah, okay."

Stiles scoops some salad into a bowl while his dad tucks in his shirt and pulls his belt on. It's a routine Stiles knows far too well, yet still makes his heart rush. "Be careful," he rasps, pushing the dish into his dad's hands.

"Only if you'll behave for the baby-sitter."

"That is not an equitable arrangement!" Stiles shouts to his dad's retreating back.

: : :

The talk, when it comes, is very straight forward.

"I am the adult, you are the child. It is my job to take care of you, not the other way around."

Stiles tries to argue that it could be good for him, too, a better diet, even though he still has that stash of junk food in his closet, but his dad refuses to back down, going so far as to threaten to ban Stiles from grocery shopping.

"Heaven forbid I try to keep you alive or anything," Stiles mumbles from the corner of the couch. He's all curled up with Serious' head resting on his crossed legs. Stiles strokes one silky ear with his thumb to keep himself calm.

"It's not your job to do that, Stiles. Your job is to be a kid. You deserve to be a kid for as long as possible."

Stiles has to bite his tongue to keep from reminding his dad of the harsh truth: that Stiles hasn't been a kid for years, since he sat by his mother's bed and watched her waste away. That, no matter what his dad says, Stiles will do whatever he can to keep that from happening to his dad, too.

He saves it for his appointments with Dr Green, where he can rant and rail, even curse, until he's worn out, too tired to fight it when his dad suggests burgers and curly fries at Dinah's for dinner.

It takes two more panic attacks, both of them after two separate arguments about his dad's health, for Dr Green to suggest a family session, where she helps mediate a discussion about Stiles' concerns.

"Control is Stiles' way of coping," she explains. "I'm not saying you should give him total control to make over your entire lifestyle, but letting him have a little more say won't hurt."

"But he's just a kid," his dad says again, weaker this time, looking at Stiles with big, sad eyes. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes are especially gutting.

"He's a kid who's been through the death of a parent," Dr Green says, not unkindly. "And now the one remaining parent's health has been threatened. This type of reaction is not unusual, no matter the age."

Stiles' dad looks like he wants to argue some more and Stiles holds his breath to prepare himself for it. Instead, his dad says, "There may be a few things that we can work out."

Stiles blows out his breath around a tentative smile.

"But I'm not giving up my red meat."

Stiles can work with that.

: : :

It seems impossible, after all that's happened in just two years, but Stiles, his dad, and Serious seem to hit something of a good patch. The The department's only real, continuing problem is a series of raves rotating through a handful of abandoned warehouses, school gets easier as Stiles goes along, and his friendship with Scott and Harley only seems to grow tighter and tighter. In fact, the worst thing happens to Stiles, other than puberty, is Scott's suggestion that they try out for cross-country track and, in the spring, the lacrosse team. It means more voluntary exposure to Jackson, and doubling up on Scott's asthma medicine, but he looks so damn excited about it, Stiles can't say no.

At least they have Serious to run with, to try to get into better shape. And Harley makes it onto the girls' side of the sport, with decidedly more talent than Scott or Stiles (both of them put together, to be honest), which means they get to hang out on the bus rides, too.

It's a few weeks after the sixth anniversary of Stiles' mom's death that his dad sits him down at the kitchen table, Serious stretched long between their feet. His dad face looks weary, sad, still, but with a touch of hope in his eyes, the uptick of his mouth. "I'd like to have a talk," he says, which is almost never a good thing, but Stiles' anxiety has been mostly under control lately; they're cooking four nights out of seven, and the grousing is more habitual now, than anything. As if their dinner won't turn out right if his dad isn't complaining about something. It feels a little like fun, almost, helping his dad stay healthy.

Of course, Stiles is a kid and so he has a stash of Oreos and Pop Tarts in his closet, but his dad doesn't need to know about that.

"Lay it on me, pop," he says, hoping his feigned confidence will ease his dad's fears.

His dad sighs, rubs at his forehead, and says, "What would you think about easing out of your appointments with Dr Green?"

It isn't at all what Stiles was expecting, and his silence allows his dad to elaborate: "You seem better, lately. We're better, I think? My health is okay and your— you haven't had an attack in— well, if I'm counting properly, at least a year, right?" Stiles nods and his dad's smile grows a little wider. "Right, and so I, I mean. Obviously, if you want to keep going, you can, if it helps you, I'm not going to take that away from you, but— It was just a thought." He pauses for a sigh, and then adds in a rush, "But you don't have to answer tonight. Think about it. Take your time."

Stiles does think about it, for all of two days. His dad's right; his anxiety has been pretty stable, thanks to his dad's less reluctant cooperation with the healthy heart regimen. Scott and Harley help keep him grounded, too. Help him remember that he's still a kid and that there should be fun in his life. Serious helps with that side _a lot_ , as well. And when Stiles really thinks about it, it's kind of hard coming up with things to talk about during his sessions. It's usually normal kid stuff, the kind of complaint any average kid would have with their parent or the snobby kids at school.

To be safe, though, to give the impression that Stiles gave this a lot of serious thought, Stiles waits a full week before he announces his decision. It feels like a weight lifted off his shoulders, to be honest. Not that he doesn't like Dr Green, but, well, that time could be put to better use, like training for track or browsing the internet, schooling Scott on Final Fantasy. The important things.

Stiles doesn't think he's imagining the look of relief in his dad's face, either, and that feels even better.

: : :

Stiles' sixteenth birthday lands on a Sunday. He doesn't want for much, really, pizza and video games with Scott and Harley would be perfect, especially if they could stretch it into a weekend-long marathon, the three of them with their heads pillowed on Serious' side. But he thinks his dad might have other ideas; he's been working a lot, leaving Stiles with Annie more often than not. Every time Stiles thinks about it, his dad working too hard and how that might damage his heart, he gets that familiar tightening in his chest, until Serious comes along and nudges Stiles' elbow, herding him toward the door and the backyard beyond.

"You don't have to work yourself to the bone, dad," Stiles says, a week before his birthday. They're trying out a new recipe: meatless lasagna. His dad doesn't look thrilled about it, but with a little tweaking, Stiles thinks he could make it work.

His dad turns his skeptical gaze from his plate to Stiles. "What are you talking about?"

Stiles waves his fork around. "Whatever you have planned for my birthday. The double shifts aren't necessary. You know I'm happy sticking around here, getting dinner from Dinah's. Or Ruffalo's." 

His dad sighs and takes his first bite. Stiles feels a swell of pride at the pleased surprise on his dad's face. "This isn't all awful," he says.

"I know," Stiles says, "But I'm still gonna work on it. No changing the subject. Birthday plans: you have them, I don't need them."

"You might want to hear what they are before you say that."

"Dad, there are no birthday plans that are worth you working yourself into an early grave."

His dad takes another bite of lasagna and chews it in slow, deliberate movements, his eyes narrowed but glinting. If he wasn't chewing food, Stiles might say he was smirking.

Stiles drops his head back and groans. "You'd better tell me now, or I'm gonna pester you 'til you do. You know how tenacious I am."

"I also know who you get it from," Stiles dad says, pointing at Stiles with his empty fork. "Luckily for you, I was going to tell you soon, anyway, so you can get yourself in order. How does a weekend at Disneyland sound?"

Stiles stills, fork halfway to his mouth. "We haven't been there since—"

"I know," his dad says, eyes cast down to a spot on the table, his dinner forgotten. "D'you— do you think we're ready for it?"

Stiles thinks about it; the last time they'd been to Disneyland, he was seven and his mom was alive and _healthy_ , leading him from ride to ride, his dad a few paces behind, bogged down with bags of souvenirs. Even though they went every year, the first weekend after the last day of school, Stiles' mom found new and interesting things to collect, didn't want Stiles to miss out on a thing.

They haven't been back since she died. Stiles hasn't really wanted to, now that he's more grown up and has more responsibilities. It always seemed like more of a mom thing, anyway. Not that his dad never had fun, but it was his mom who loved it best.

Stiles sets his fork on his plate. Under the table, Serious' nose bumps against Stiles' bare toes.

"I already asked Dr Deaton if he would take Serious for the weekend," Stiles' dad explains. "And we could talk to Scott's mom and Harley's parents, see if they'd be willing to let them go over and visit, maybe take him for a walk?"

Stiles nods, his words stuck behind the lump lodged in his throat.

"Stiles," his dad says, leaning in. His hand is warm and reassuring on Stiles' forearm, and the touch draws Stiles' eyes up, until they reach his dad's worried face. "If you're not ready, we don't have to go. I can cancel it all tomorrow."

Stiles croaks out a no, twists his arm so his hand is wrapped around his dad's forearm, too. "No," he says again, firmer this time. "I think it's perfect. We'll take flowers to her before we go?"

"Of course we will."

On the floor, Serious headbutts Stiles' ankle until Stiles chuckles.

: : :

They leave Anaheim early enough to have time to pick up Serious before they get home. Stiles registers his dad and Dr Deaton talking together in hushed tones, but is too distracted by Serious running his nose all over Stiles to try and eavesdrop; it tickles so much, he can't even stay upright. It isn't— Serious isn't playing, though. He's huffing and shoving and there's fierce agitation in every furry line of his body. Like he's on high alert. It's a side of Serious Stiles hasn't seen since that night in the hospital, the night he still swears he dreamed. Who in their right mind would allow an wolf into a hospital? It's not like Serious could ever be stealthy, either. He's too big for that.

As Serious eases up on his sniffing, Stiles sits up and catches his breath, one hand fisted over Serious' furry shoulder. "C'mere dude," he mutters with a tug, urging Serious closer until he can get his arms around Serious' neck. Even now, after the sniffy treatment, Serious is strained, rigid as a board in Stiles' arms. Stiles scoots closer and tightens the hug, presses his face into the fur and breathes into Serious' ear, "I'm okay, dude. You can chill now. I promise. We won't leave you again."

It takes a minute or two for Serious to stand down, and he does so in stages; his tail droops, he drops his butt to the floor, his ears ease down, he heaves a heavy, stinky sigh, and lets Stiles squeeze him tighter.

: : :

Serious is a different wolf, after that.

Stiles isn't sure why; he Googles the hell out of separation anxiety in pets, but the only behavior Serious matches up with is the pacing. He allows Stiles and his dad out of the house, but tends to stick by them when at all possible, sometimes pressed in close enough that Stiles staggers under the weight. Or he paces the farthest reaches of the backyard while Scott and Stiles and Harley are outside, paying special attention to where the yard bleeds into the preserve just beyond. If any of them get too close or wander into the trees seeking relief from the sun, Serious is there in an instant, nudging them with his nose or head to herd them back toward the house.

He doesn't sleep in the bed with Stiles anymore, either, choosing instead to sleep tucked against the wall underneath the window or blocking the door, like he's trying to keep people out. Once, Stiles swears he woke up in the middle of the night and blinked open his sleepy eyes to see Serious staring out the window. He chalks up that night's dreams to the obscene amount of Oreos and Pepsi he mainlined during homework time.

With his internet research at a dead end, the only other option he has is to ask Dr Deaton, but he's cryptic and kind of weird and chalks it up to each individual animal's unique personality, which is no help at all.

By the time Thanksgiving rolls around, everybody is used to Serious' behavior, enough that they don't question his need to slip out the door first, blocking everybody in until he gives the go ahead. Stiles and his dad rationalize it as a new quirk to their already odd choice for a pet. And now that the leash rule is back in effect, ruling out visits to the dog park, Scott and Harley don't come around as often to spend time with him, so they're too busy trying to beat Stiles at Mario Kart to notice the weirdness.

It goes downhill the closer they get to Christmas, though. To the point where Stiles' dad brings up the possibility of alternative care for Serious. A thought that brings Stiles' heart to a halt.

"So he's a little over-protective," Stiles scrapes out, trying to will his heart to start and his lungs to work. "I hear a lot of people like that in a pet. Makes them feel safe."

"There's safe and then there's—" he waves a hand at Serious, sitting in the kitchen doorway, ramrod straight with both ears at attention. Stiles thinks it's the only place where Serious can keep an eye on them while also getting a good view of the front and back doors. "That. Besides, you're sixteen now. School is getting harder, you have more responsibilities. You'll probably be looking for a job soon."

Stiles notices his dad's side-eye and volleys with his own most unimpressed look. "I get the hint, dad. No need to bludgeon me over the head with it." It's an old argument; his mom's Jeep taunts him from the garage, standing silent sentry while Stiles saves up for a new transmission. Until then, Stiles is stuck with his bike, which isn't the worst mode of transportation ever, he just figures it isn't very practical or attractive to show up at his place of employment sweaty and out of breath. "That doesn't mean we get rid of Serious, though. We'll figure it out, like we always do."

"Stiles—"

"No, Dad," Stiles says, more emphatic than he means to. "That's how he ended up at Dr Deaton's in the first place, because someone gave up on him. I'm not going to be that person. I'm not going to abandon him."

: : :

Stiles isn't seven anymore, so even on Christmas morning, he's lucky if he wakes up before ten. It helps that his dad usually picks up an overnight shift to help out the younger dads on the squad, too. It means Stiles can take his time putting brunch together: eggs, bacon, and english muffins; pancakes with real maple syrup; a box of pastries and the premium coffee from Suzy's bakery, hot and ready to go, beckoning his dad downstairs, eyes bleary and bright, nose angled up to drink it all in.

"Merry Christmas, kid," he mumbles to Stiles, still knuckling the sleep from his eyes. Serious, nearer to relaxed for the first time in weeks, nudges Stiles' dad in the knee and gets himself a pat on the head in return. "You too, mutt," he says affectionately, reaching for the coffee just as Stiles finishes pouring.

They eat in a companionable silence, each of them slipping food to Serious, who doesn't bother with looking shameful. It feels good smiling at his dad, spoiling Serious, the sun slanting in through the blinds a warm, buttery yellow. Once the pancakes have disappeared, Stiles' dad scoops up the pastries, refills their coffees, and heads to the living room for the annual Die Hard marathon.

The presents get opened leisurely, in between changing discs or during a popcorn break. There aren't many, a few for each, but Stiles' dad loves his blu-ray set of James Bond movies and Stiles appreciates the new video card for his laptop. Of course, Serious isn't left out, he seems pleased with his own over-sized fleece blanket. As pleased as a wolf can look, anyway. 

Around the time Samuel L. Jackson gets a sliver of cable stuck in his hand, Stiles watches his dad wander off into the kitchen. He's in there for a few minutes, banging around, running the water, but comes back with the Chinese take-out menu and a beer. Stiles reaches for the beer, like the smart ass he is, and gets a swat with the menu for his troubles. Next to him on the couch, Serious blows out a breath, eyes focused on Stiles' dad. 

"No comments from the peanut gallery," Stiles says, giving Serious a noogie for emphasis.

Their order arrives right as Die Hard with a Vengeance wraps up and they move to the kitchen, where they can spread the food out properly and — and where there's a box sitting on the table in front of Stiles' usual chair. It's small, about the size of a jewelry box, wrapped in shiny red paper. A silver bow sits on top, holding down a tag, as if Stiles needs to read it to know who it's for.

He approaches it like it's a bomb, his steps light, arms held unnaturally still. "I thought we opened all the gifts?" he says, darting a glance between the gift tag and his dad, Serious sitting silent beside him, watching Stiles with something like amusement. The tag is in his dad's hand-writing at least. Good sign, that.

"This one needed some special attention," his dad says, his voice sounding sand papery.

Stiles shakes it once, but the rattle only confuses him more. It's not jewelry, he thinks, only disguised to look like it. He pulls of the top and looks inside to find a set of keys, two, on a key ring that looks suspiciously like his mom's. He's frozen in place, mind whirring.

"Gus gave me a good deal," his dad starts, rough. "Payment plan, discount on the install, in honor of your mother."

Stiles doesn't know how he ends up across the room, arms wrapped around his dad's neck, keys clutched in one tight fist, but it's not like it matters, either. Heat prickles at his eyelids and he squeezes them tight, strengthens his hold on his dad. "Thanks dad," he says, his voice wrecked. "Thank you."

He thinks he might feel a smear of moisture on his neck, where his dad tucks in to press a kiss, but he's there and gone before Stiles can think about it, urging Stiles toward the table to keep the food from getting cold.

: : :

It's during dinner that Serious loses his zen. It starts with him coming to attention on the floor at Stiles' feet, his body snapping alert hard enough to rock the chair. During Live Free or Die Hard, Serious opts to keep tabs from the kitchen doorway, ears pricked for any and all noises. Stiles' dad notices but doesn't comment, a thing for which Stiles is very grateful. He doesn't want to have an argument on Christmas Day. Not about this.

During the late evening news, Serious recognizes the signs of a sleepy, carb-crashing Stiles and heads for the backdoor. Generally, Stiles likes to keep tabs on Serious, if only to make his dad happy, but every once in awhile, he's too tired to put off brushing his teeth and changing into his pajamas, and leaves Serious to his own devices. It's been years since they adopted him, anyway, and never once has he tried to run away.

It helps that Stiles can watch over most of the backyard from his room, though, and he peeks out from time to time, only to find Serious pacing the yard, dangerously close to where it transitions into the preserve. Stiles hisses at Serious once, for show, and gets an ear flick for his trouble. At least he doesn't take off into the trees. Stiles' dad would be furious.

On his way down the stairs, Stiles hears a howl outside the house, long and low, full of mourning and grief. It doesn't sound close, so it's probably not from Serious, but it prickles goosebumps all across his skin anyway and he rushes the last few steps between the stairs and the door, calling Serious' name until he trots in at a sad, sedate pace.

"What is going on with you?" he mutters, after wishing his dad a good night and Merry Christmas, annoyed that Serious can't answer. At least Serious hops up into the bed, like he always used to, and snugs up close to Stiles, his cold nose tickling Stiles' ear. The warm easy solid of him is comforting enough to help Stiles' shut his brain down and fall asleep.

Waking up to find Serious gone, though, back door left wide open, is a nightmare Stiles wishes he could wake up from.

: : :

He leaves a note for his dad — "Taking the Jeep out for a test drive. Serious wants to be co-pilot" — and heads straight for the preserve. Armed with his phone, Serious' leash, and a bottle of water, he wanders around for the better part of two hours, calling and whistling for Serious along the way. The only answer he gets in return are from the squirrels and the birds. He tells himself he didn't expect to find anything, anyway, and heads back for the Jeep.

He passes the old Hale House along the way, still a pile of ashes and ruin in the middle of a clearing, trees and weeds just now starting to encroach on the open space, so many years after the fire. Stiles takes a couple of steps toward it, since he's there, but what can only generously be called a door bangs in the frame, exposing the gutted inside and the forest behind that. He tells himself there's no way a wolf of Serious' size would be able to move around in there and stay on all four paws. Even the porch steps look seconds from collapse, and they're the only part not charred black and sooty.

His dad is in the kitchen when Stiles gets home. Stiles detects the lingering scent of Suzy's coffee. He closes the front door too loud to announce his arrival and dumps the keys and his wallet on the side table. 

"We're going to need to set some ground rules about the Jeep," his dad shouts down the hall. Stiles follows the words, shuffling along in his socked feet.

"He's gone," Stiles says without preamble. "I woke up and the back door was open and he's gone."

His dad stills behind the paper, knuckles turning white. He curses, long and low, and when the paper drops, Stiles expects anger, not— not the soft slant of his dad's mouth, the sad crinkles at his eyes. It's too much; what Stiles needs is anger, an 'I told you so,' something he can fight against, since Serious himself isn't there to scream at.

Instead he gets his dad's arms around him, folding him close, already muttering plans to get Serious back.

: : :

Searching for his pet dog-slash-wolf was not the way Stiles wanted to spend his winter break, especially with Harley gone, spending her break with family in South Carolina. In place of all the junk food they could eat and video games as far as the eye can see, Stiles is stuck with phone calls to Dr Deaton, watching his dad coordinate with the forestry and wildlife service, searching the woods in the chill and the rain. He only gets through it because of Scott's endless optimism and Stiles' dad's quiet strength.

"We'll find 'im," he says over their bowls of chicken tortilla soup; a gift from Mrs McCall via Scott. It's warm with a little bit of a kick, but it still can't touch the chill in Stiles' bones, the clench in his gut that says Serious is never coming back.

Every time Stiles is alone — which isn't all that much, considering — Stiles runs it all over in his mind; did he not appreciate Serious enough? Did they not spend enough time together? Was the food lacking? Or maybe they didn't cuddle enough. It doesn't make sense that he would run away, and it makes even less sense that Stiles left the back door open.

He rolls over, presses his cheek into his pillow, and tries to ignore the wolf-shaped hole in his bed.

: : :

It isn't until the last night of winter break that Stiles feels the first icy spike of dread, the familiar catch in his breathing that makes his lungs seem too small. His dad answers the phone and shifts from warm and informal to stone cold business in less than a blink, his clipped words as tight as the line of his shoulders.

Stiles only catches the very end of the conversation, but it's enough to put two and two together: body in the woods. Beacon Hills' first unnatural death since the Hale fire. His mind tries not to slide to Serious, as if that will protect his innocence, but it's hard. Harder than Stiles wants it to be.

Stiles is sixteen, old enough to be left alone at night, but his dad's so busy getting himself together, he forgets one crucial fact: Stiles has a car, now. And a friend willing to follow wherever Stiles will lead (as opposed to Harley who leads and expects Stiles to follow; he probably shouldn't like it as much as he does), with only a minimum of convincing.

: : :

The only thing Stiles can think, driving back to the preserve in the middle of the night, is, 'please don't let it have been Serious.' Over and over again it flits through his mind; his dad's warnings, Serious' agitation, the strength of his massive jaws. Everything in Stiles says Serious is incapable of this, of _killing_ a person, when all he's ever been toward Stiles is gentle and caring and comforting, but anonymous forest rangers don't know that. And his dad doesn't have jurisdiction over them. 

Scott doesn't say anything until they're spilling out of the Jeep and pulling their hoods up against the rain starting to fall. "What do we do when we find him?" he asks, looking steady and sure. Stiles kind of wants to hug him for his unwavering faith.

Stiles fishes something out of his pocket and holds it out for Scott to see. "I brought his leash." 

"So, I guess we just go in?" He gestures toward the sign, the chain across the path, and gives Stiles a cautious smile.

"Got your phone and your inhaler?" Scott nods. "Then, I guess we go in."

A few feet down the path, their hoodies turning heavy with rain, Scott stops Stiles with a hand on his wrist. "What happens if we find the rest of the body?"

Stiles takes a bracing breath, hoping Scott doesn't hear the shiver in it. "We'll cross that bridge if we come to it."

: : :

Of course, the only thing Stiles finds is his dad and a dozen of his deputies. Stiles sputters through the rain on his face, fighting not to give anything away, not to fall to his knees and beg his dad to protect Serious. He holds off long enough to be escorted to the Jeep, his dad letting go of his shirt halfway there, and settles into the driver's seat wet and miserable and defeated.

"You can't let them kill him," Stiles says, with a ferocity he isn't sure he feels.

His dad swipes a hand down his face and sighs, his other hand perched on his hip, just above his gun. "I might not be there to stop them," he answers, voice harsh, scratchy from barking orders in the cool winter air. "But I'll do what I can." 

Stiles nods, running low on words and hope.

Driving home without Scott only makes it worse.

: : :

If Stiles were to be honest with himself, there was a not small part of him that didn't expect to find Serious in the woods, in the dark, with the rain turning everything blurry. And yet, finding Serious would've been less surprising than mother fucking werewolves. It's like leveling up in life, without earning the experience points until the very last minute, their little gang skating by with nothing more than hope and fear and a splash of bravado. 

That doesn't even include Derek Hale popping up at the most inopportune times, bleeding to death or hiding out in Stiles' house, acting like he's the shit, when it's clear as day to anyone who looks hard enough; Derek's scared and alone. Why Stiles cares, even he can't say, but he thinks maybe it has a little bit to do with digging up Derek's sister's body and a healthy dose of morbid curiosity.

Soon, Stiles' life consists of one crisis on top of another, with surreal bouts of teenage normalcy wedged in between, keeping Stiles busy enough that he doesn't have time to think about Serious, let alone look for him. It still hurts, though. The realization that Serious is getting further and further away. Especially at night, when it's three AM and, more than anything, Stiles wishes he could take comfort from somebody, let them carry his stress and guilt and fear for a little while.

: : :

The second he figures it out, where Scott's phone might be, Stiles knows he should tell somebody, but prom is so close, and he's going with _Lydia_ , the queen of the school. Just this one time, he tells himself, he's going to be selfish. He's going to get all dressed up, let his dad take some pictures, then pick Lydia up in his mom's pride and joy, and have a fantastic night. Derek can take care of himself for twenty-four more hours. He _can_.

Doing all that feels better than Stiles ever could've imagined. It feels _right_ ; he's sixteen and this is what sixteen year olds do. They go to dances and make idiots of themselves, and some of them even get to dance with the girl of their dreams. It's one of the best nights in Stiles' life, so it's almost easy to watch Lydia go find Jackson, to turn around and search for Scott and Allison. 

Really, he should've known better.

: : :

He takes it out on the Porsche; the fear and anger and frustration he feels as the last few hours play behind his eyelids. Jackson bitches the entire way, but it's white noise at best, nothing more than a buzz in Stiles' ear. He goes over it again and again, looking for the signs he missed, how it took him so long to put the pieces together.

Time stops, outside the car. Peter in his full wolf form is a massive, terrible thing, worse than a nightmare and headed straight for Scott, with his gaping mouth and razor sharp claws. He looks twisted and bent and Stiles aims for the hump in Peter's back, hoping the fire will splash down around the vital parts first, take those out long enough for Scott to go in for the kill.

But drawing Peter's attention away from Scott was the wrong move: Peter catches the bottle and Stiles' heart stops. Until he hears Scott, until Allison looses the bolt and fire cascades down Peter's arm. The roar is loud, and only gets louder after Jackson steps up and does his part, drenching the rest of Peter in liquid fire. The sound is agonizing, the smell even worse, and for one wild second, Stiles thinks Peter's aiming for the house, to die where the rest of his family did, but Scott kicks him back, kicks him away, and Peter stumbles, his monstrous body morphing back to human, charred and bleeding and struggling for air.

They're frozen, all of them, watching Peter twitch and shake, smoking rising from his body, his skin turning black. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles can see Scott and Allison coming together, arms looped around each others' waist. Their steps are cautious, their attention focused on Peter, on what Scott will have to do if he wants a chance to be human again.

But then the door to the house shatters behind them, a massive black wolf leaping out from the shadows to come to a stop just in front of Stiles. Its shoulders are about as tall as his waist and his eyes meet Stiles' with a quiet certainty Stiles hasn't seen in almost three months. 

"Serious?" Stiles whispers, hand held out in front of him, not quite touching. Serious closes the distance between them, nudging Stiles' palm with his nose. A rustle from behind Stiles catches Serious' attention and has his eyes glowing blue. He growls, too, which Stiles has never heard before, and flashes his teeth. And then...

And then he's human. Naked. _Derek_.

Stiles doesn't have time to process everything. He's too busy getting shoved aside by Derek and spun around by Allison, Scott yelling, "No, wait!" and trying to catch up.

Derek drops to his knees at Peter's side, head bowed. "I'm sorry I lied," he calls out, to nobody in particular, but it stops Scott in his tracks, has Stiles' own heart stuttering to a halt. Before Stiles can think about trying to stop Derek, Derek's hand is wrist-deep in Peter's chest and Derek is howling at the moon, his body twisting and rippling. Stiles wonders if Derek's going to transform into the grotesque version of a wolf Peter had been and turns his head so he won't have to look, won't have to remember Serious — _Derek_ — that way. 

"Holy shit," Allison breathes out next to him, hands fisting in his shirt to keep them both upright. 

There's something bumping him in the back before he can ask and the face he sees when he turns is still Serious, those steady green eyes and the muzzle that used to tickle his neck at night. The same grey-tipped ears and fluffy tail. Only...larger now, if that's possible. Broader, maybe? 

Stiles drops to his knees, bringing them almost face to face, and reaches out to bury his hands in dark fur. Serious — _Derek_ , jesus christ Stiles, get it right — thrums with power now, and resists so much easier than he did before, and that hits Stiles hard in the chest. It's been too long a night, with too many revelations and way too much adrenaline, but before Stiles can pull back far enough to say any of that, Derek flashes his red alpha eyes and disappears into the trees.


	3. Derek

It's guilt that draws Derek back to Beacon Hills, six months after Peter's death. Six months of living as a wolf after four months being human; hunting for his dinner, bathing in lakes or rivers, basking in the hot sun with the sound of the forest lulling him to sleep. It's freeing, being up in the mountains, away from hunters and humans in general, giving in to his animal instincts as much as he wants.

But it's lonelier than it was the first time, right after the fire, before the hunters sunk an arrow in his belly. He's lost a second pack, now, a home, people who were concerned about what happened to him. Stiles, who Derek tries very hard not to think about; his easy smiles and simple acceptance of Derek as Serious, the comforting weight of his body and how it felt to protect him, to be cared about and needed in return.

There's Scott, too. Newly turned, probably still struggling with the change, with urges he doesn't understand and powers he can't control. Derek tries to ignore the hole in his gut, tells himself that Scott never liked him anyway, never wanted to be a werewolf, and walks away from his catch of the week, but the hole remains, constant and aching.

So Derek goes back, takes the long way down the mountain, to a town a few over from Beacon Hills. There's a storage facility there where his family rented a unit, far in the back, in case of emergencies. He hadn't want to use it before, didn't feel right about wearing the clothes of the people he'd helped kill, but he doesn't have many options right now. He's spent the last ten years, give or take, as a wolf. He has no money, no clothes, and no identification. If he wants anything resembling a normal life again, if he wants to try to build a pack again, that's where he has to start.

: : :

His first step is to find some place to live. Luckily, in small towns like these, people are more trusting and lenient about credit checks for renters, especially if it's a woman in her seventies looking for a little extra bingo cash, willing to rent out the apartment above her garage for a reasonable fee.

"I haven't been able to get up there in years," Mrs Leventhall tells him, her blue eyes magnified by her glasses, "so you'll probably have to do some cleaning, but you look like you can handle it." 

"It'll be no problem, Mrs Leventhall. I appreciate your hospitality."

"Yes, well," he holds her elbow as she walks away and helps her lower herself into her easy chair. "You make sure you read up on home repairs. I'm going to put you to good use. And call me Gert."

"It'll be my pleasure, Gert." There's even a small part of Derek that means it.

: : :

Getting identification is trickier. Derek's not sure what happened to his wallet after he shifted that last time, but he has to assume it was found at the house, while the police collected their evidence. He feels another pang of guilt thinking about it; Scott, Stiles, and Allison having to come up with a story about Derek's disappearance. At least the Camaro wasn't there to make things worse.

It takes him a few weeks to drum up the courage to call Sheriff Stilinski, and after a short conversation, the sheriff agrees to meet Derek in a diner for lunch a few days later. The sheriff seems suspicious, but ends the conversation with a wry chuckle and says, "As long as you don't tell my kid I'm cheating." Derek takes that as a hopeful sign.

"He won't hear it from me," Derek says on reflex, trying to push down the memories of before, of lazing on the couch between Stiles and the sheriff, chasing them around the dog park, eating the bits of vegetables the sheriff would sneak under the table. It all clogs in Derek's throat, making it hard to speak, but the sheriff has long since hung up, leaving Derek to figure out how to breathe again.

: : :

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me," Derek says, hand stretched out for the sheriff to shake. "I know you must be extremely busy."

"Oh yes," the sheriff agrees, his tone flat, "that Beacon Hills is a hotbed of crime."

The waitress stops by with coffee before the conversation can continue. When she asks if they need time to decide, Derek is about to say yes, but the sheriff cuts in with his order for a bacon cheeseburger and a double order of fries. Out of habit, Derek zeros in on the sheriff's heart. There's nothing there to hint at any problems, which puts Derek's mind at ease.

"I'll have the same," Derek says without looking at the menu. "And an iced tea, no lemon."

"Coke for me," the sheriff adds.

Silence falls then, and Derek focuses his attention on the napkin in front of him, dragging his thumbnail along the length of it over and over again, wishing he could use a claw to shred it, like he used to as a kid. But the sheriff's there, the weight of his scrutiny almost stifling. Derek wants to say something, but doesn't know where to start.

"This is your show, kid," the sheriff says instead, leaning back in his chair. He crosses his arms over his chest and gives Derek an assessing look. "You asked me to meet you, you might want to tell me what it is you want."

Derek takes a deep breath and says, "That's kind of a loaded question." He tries to be nonchalant, maybe even a little funny, but the sheriff eases up on the tough guy routine and leans in, eyes softer.

"I suppose it is. Why don't we start with the basics?"

Over their cheeseburgers, Derek asks about his belongings, his wallet and the Camaro, both in police custody. In return, the sheriff asks what happened to Derek at the house, why his things were left behind.

"I was living there," Derek says around a bite of curly fries. They stick in his throat a little, turning his voice thick and scratchy. "I had nowhere else, so I was living there. I heard Kate Argent and— and another person talking about the fire. I heard her admit to starting it, and I just— it was either run away or hurt her, sheriff. And I— I've had enough of death." He still has half a burger left and a third of his fries, but his appetite is long gone now, thinking about that night again; the jolts of electricity he was forced to endure, hearing Kate's body drop to the floor, how warm Peter's blood was, in Derek's hand, how his heart beat for several long moments before Derek squeezed and squeezed.

A hand on his shoulder draws Derek's attention out and up, to the sheriff leaning over, his eyes knowing and sad. "It's okay son, we'll get you what you need. It might take some time, but we'll get you there."

The sheriff's warmth and concern pulls Derek right back to those years he spent with them, and the urge to shift and curl up at the sheriff's feet is sudden and overwhelming, but this is neither the time nor the place. Instead, Derek pushes down the impulse to ask about Stiles and says, "There's just one more thing."

"What is it?"

"I'd like to lay low for awhile. Stay where I am. Can we continue meeting outside of Beacon Hills? At least until I get myself together?"

The sheriff straightens up, taking his hand back, and gives Derek the same assessing look as before. It seems like such a small request to Derek, but despite what the sheriff says, Derek is sure he has more important things to do than meet some punk kid in a diner two towns over for something that isn't at all crime-related. Just when it seems the sheriff might say no, he gives Derek a nod and pulls out his wallet. "Small towns are a pain, aren't they?"

Derek chuckles along with him.

: : :

It takes less time than Derek had expected, getting his affairs in order. It helps that there isn't much to organize: a missing person's report to close, get his wallet and car keys released from evidence, spring the Camaro from lock-up. It's a lot of signing papers and notarization and comparing fingerprints, but it's okay. Good, even. Derek's shoulders feel a little lighter with each new piece of his life put back in his hands. His only regret is his lost claim to the house and the land it sat on; having been gone for so long, the property belongs to the state now, and the house doesn't exist anymore.

Derek tells himself it's for the best, with all the horror that's taken place there, but it still hurts. All he has left of his family is a flashy car tucked away in an elderly woman's garage, and old clothes and furniture, waiting out its days in a storage facility. 

But he also has Gert, a job at the rare bookstore down the corner from his favorite coffee shop, and, bizarrely, a monthly appointment for lunch with Sheriff Stilinski. On the whole, his life could be worse.

: : :

The one thing Derek can't figure out is how to reconnect with Scott and, by extension, Stiles. Despite all the improvements he's made in his life, all the healthy connections he's formed, when he thinks about Scott and Stiles, it kind of goes to shit. On the one hand, there's Scott, who Derek misled over and over again. Fear and anger don't excuse what he did, and looking back on it, he feels like he should've seen how it would all end. He knew Scott, after all, before that day in the woods, when Derek had to pretend to not know both Scott and Stiles. He knew all about Scott's dad and how he was gruff and over-bearing. Ex-military with the spine to match. Scott may have started out sweet and shy when Stiles first met him, but at some point, Stiles' sass gave Scott the confidence to stand up for himself, and Derek never took that into account.

On the other hand, there's Stiles. The one who bathed Derek and played with him, argued for him against his dad and whispered his secrets to at night. Derek was the one Stiles clung to the first time he had a panic attack, and almost every time after. Even with all those memories, both good and heart-breaking, when Derek's mind slides to Stiles, all he sees is Stiles' face the night at the preserve, the shock and surprise, anger and confusion. 

Derek isn't sure he can ever explain why he lived his life as a wolf for so long, how the fear and loneliness were easier to bear with the lack of human interaction. Until Stiles came along, and wormed his way through Derek's defenses, one rambling conversation at a time.

: : :

It's the universe that forces Derek's hand, on a warm, sunny Saturday in August. He doesn't always work on Saturday, but Mr Fitz asked Derek to come in to help sort through some new inventory, so Derek's got his back to the door when the bell rings, bright and cheery. "Let me know if you need anything," he calls out over his shoulder, familiar enough with the town now for it not to be rude.

"Actually," the voice behind him says, "I'm kind of on a timetable here, and I'm looking for a very specific book. So..."

The voice pings some memory inside Derek, but he can't quite place it until he turns toward the computer and comes face to face with Stiles.

"Holy shit," Stiles gasps, hands fisted on top of the counter. His eyes go big and round and he takes a step back. 

Derek is the opposite, frozen in place, right down to the air in his lungs. He's sure he could stop his heart from beating if he thought about it hard enough. "Hi," he says dumbly. 

Stiles' mouth works open and closed while dozens of questions flit through his brain. Derek can see them in the twitching skin, one eye narrowed more than the other. Stiles settles on, "Have you been living here the whole time?!" and winces at its shrill tone.

Derek shakes his head. "No."

Thankfully, that seems to take some of the wind out of Stiles' sails. He stumbles back another step, hands clenched at his sides. "So, what? You were living life as a wolf again? Didn't think I— we'd care what happened to you?"

Derek ducks his head, eyes landing on his open palms, and tries to stamp down a glimmer of hope. "Not really, no."

"Well, good. Because we didn't." He crosses his arms over his chest to punctuate his point.

Derek nods, grateful for Stiles' candor, if nothing else. "I'm glad."

The following silence is awkward, filled with the quiet rustling of Stiles' clothes. Derek's mind races, trying to find a way to continue the conversation, so maybe he can find a place somewhere to explain and apologize, but of course Stiles' mouth gets the better of him, and he blurts out. "So about that book?" 

Stunned, Derek's body slips into autopilot and he steps up to the computer. "Title?"

Stiles slides a crinkled sheet of paper across the counter; it only takes a few minutes for Derek to pull it up, another handful to find it tucked in the back. It's almost surreal, ringing Stiles up like he's any other ordinary customer. But there's nothing ordinary about him, about how happy Derek is to see him. 

It's robotic, the way Derek accepts Stiles' money, then hands the bag over, his "have a great afternoon," said on reflex, with half a smile.

Stiles mutters a thanks, too focused on slipping his change into his wallet to look Derek in the face. It's disappointing but not unexpected, and Derek contents himself with watching Stiles leave, the long, lean lines of him both familiar and new. Stiles pauses at the door and Derek's heart stops, but Stiles only turns his head enough for Derek to seem his profile, edged gold by the sun.

"I think I'm glad you're okay," Stiles says, his voice low and steady. "But I'm okay, too. I hope..." His hand tightens on the doorknob and he draws in a heavy breath. "Scott's okay. He's figured out how to control it. So you don't...There's no reason for you to come back."

There isn't anything Derek can say to that.

: : :

In the days after Stiles' visit, Derek takes stock of his life and what options he has open to him. His first problem is he's an alpha without a pack, which is a scant step up from being an outright omega. It makes Derek harder to kill, but if a powerful enough alpha comes along, one with a strong, thriving pack, he or she could kill Derek. Worse, they could make Derek submit and knock him back to beta. Though Derek is better suited to be a beta, the prospect of finding a place in a new pack is frightening, not to mention how demoralizing it would be for Derek's ineptitude to be the reason his family's legacy faded away.

His best option, as Derek sees it, is to start fresh, somewhere not so close to Beacon Hills, so he won't have to worry about running into Stiles or Scott. It would be hard to establish a new territory on his own, and thinking about it makes something in his chest ache, but it could be good. Somewhere nobody knows him, doesn't know how his family died or how badly he's fucked up his life. He could find a few friends, maybe work on building his pack up, offer some the bite.

Except, the more he thinks about it, the less and less he likes the idea.

What would be great is if Derek could remember the old Hale allies, the kids he played with while his mother talked shop with alphas from the surrounding areas. He's sure at least one of them would remember him and feel some sense of allegiance to his mother, enough to guide Derek, teach him how to be a proper alpha.

Unfortunately, those are nothing more than fuzzy, sepia-toned memories now, warped and faded by the filters of death and regret and betrayal. He could try asking around, keeping his ear low to the ground, but if the wrong people heard about Derek's predicament, it could be a disaster for him.

It kind of leaves him stuck where he is, which isn't a horrible prospect. Well, until he's walking down the street, headed for the grocery store, and sees a familiar blue Jeep parked in front of the bookstore. Derek stumbles to a stop, fighting against the sudden urge to run. It helps that there's nowhere to run to. Stiles isn't in the Jeep, which means he could be in any one of the stores lining the street, including the market.

Derek makes the decision without really thinking about it, closing his eyes on a deep breath to focus his ears. It takes a minute to filter out the ambient noise, birds and cars and pedestrian traffic, but he catches it— _there_ , Stiles yelling at the top of his lungs, "I know you're back there, you chicken shit! Just come out so we can talk. I promise I won't hurt you." Derek fights to hold back a smirk.

"He's not _here_ ," Mr Fitz hisses. "He doesn't work Saturdays."

"Like hell he doesn't," Stiles shoots back. "I was in here last week, that's how I know he— Oh." Derek opens his eyes just as the bell jangles above the door, and there Stiles is, a foot away, his eyes bright and sparking, hands clenched into fists.

"Interesting choice in friends, Derek," Mr Fitz says from behind Stiles. His eyes catch Derek's over the rim of his glasses and he jerks his head at Stiles. "Enjoy your day off."

"We will, thanks," Derek replies with a tight grin. It falls the second he turns back to Stiles. "I thought you didn't want to see me again."

"Yeah, well," Stiles shoves his hands into his pockets and kicks at the ground. "I'm allowed to change my mind."

"You thought storming into the place where I work would be the best approach?"

"I didn't _storm in_ ," Stiles groans. "I only got loud because I didn't believe you weren't there. He's kinda shifty. And who knows the lengths you would go to, to avoid me."

"I wasn't the one who didn't want to see anybody," Derek reminds Stiles in a clipped tone. It's a struggle to not get into Stiles' space, intimidate him with height and bulk, a flare of red eyes.

"I was surprised, okay?!?" Stiles says, his voice starting to rise. His hands are out, restless at his sides. "The last person I expected to run into was you. And I might've been a little hasty with the dismissal." Derek snorts. "But now that I've thought about it, I have questions, and _you_ —" he pokes his finger into Derek's chest hard enough to hurt, "—are the only one that can answer them.

To help earn back some equal footing in the encounter, Derek stays silent long enough to make Stiles squirm. "Okay," he says to Stiles' full-bodied sigh of relief, "but not here. There's a park, a few blocks away. You can walk that far, right?"

"Hey, fuck you," Stiles protest as they fall into step together. "I chased you around for hours back when— y'know, you were furry. A few blocks won't kill me."

It's weird walking with Stiles, how all the townspeople know Derek and greet him like an old friend, like somebody worth knowing. Each time it happens, Derek can feel the weight of Stiles' gaze on him, that clever mind taking and processing everything in a new light. Derek isn't sure if it'll accomplish anything, but it still feels good. Feels validating.

The park he brings Stiles to is a mess of park benches and play areas. A gazebo marks the middle and it's where the volunteer orchestra gives a free concert every Wednesday night. Everybody brings blankets and picnic baskets, their kids and their dogs. There's singing and laughing, dancing and cuddling. It's the perfect small town attraction, even if Derek prefers to sit by himself in the shade of an old oak tree, well away from where anybody would notice him.

It's that bench Derek chooses now, sitting on it like an actual adult while Stiles takes a step up and sits on its back. It's a little reminiscent of the nights Derek spent on the couch with Stiles, his head resting on Stiles' knee, small fingers combing through Derek's thick, dark fur. Only now, Stiles keeps a fair distance between himself and Derek. It hurts like a dull ache, that lack of trust.

Stiles turns nervous now that they're alone and unmoving, tucked back into the shade while joggers pass by. Across the path is the sprawling jungle gym, alive with kids of every shape and size. Stiles' eyes dart from there to his hands and back again, one knee bouncing out a rapid rhythm.

Emotionally exhausted and nervous himself, Derek rests a gentle hand on Stiles' thigh and says, "Ask what you want to ask. I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"Oh really?" Stiles snarks back. His leg stills lightning quick. "Is that a new thing, now? Could've come in handy before, when we were all fighting for our lives."

"I get that you're mad, Stiles, and how badly I screwed up, but there's nothing I can do to change that, now—"

"You could say you're _sorry_ ," Stiles butts in.

"Would that make a difference to you?"

Stiles shrugs one shoulder. "Depends on if you mean it."

Derek shoves himself up from the bench and starts pacing. "Of course I mean it. You have no idea—"

"I have _some_ idea."

"I was scared, too!" Derek shouts, getting up into Stiles' face. "I had to mourn my own sister all over again and then my un— and then there was Peter. I had no idea what I was doing!"

"Then why didn't you tell me who you were?" Stiles shoots back, thumping Derek in the chest. "Why didn't you tell me you were Serious?! Maybe if I had known—"

"Maybe if you had known, you would've been okay with it, but not everybody is, Stiles, and I didn't need that disaster on top of everything else."

"You were my— _pet_ ," they both wince on the word, "how could I not have been okay with it?!"

"I've seen it happen," Derek says stubbornly, his jaw set.

"Shyeah, people who are not as awesome as me, clearly." Stiles gives his chest a arrogant pat, his lips quirked into a smirk. Derek has to bite down on a smile of his own. "But seriously Derek, how did you even end up at Deaton's in the first place? How could you not know Laura was alive?"

Derek drops back onto the bench in a heap, close enough to Stiles' leg to feel every antsy fidget. "I don't— god, that night, Stiles. Everything was so messed up. I didn't know where anybody was. I assumed she was still in the house." He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, to drop his head in his hands. It makes the movie playing behind his eyes easier to relive: the flames of the fire; thick, dark smoke; the stench of charred flesh; and Celia's tiny human cries, his dad roaring to try and get to her. It was all Derek's senses could focus on that night, the fire and the sudden hollow in his chest.

Until he heard a twig snap. To anyone else, it might've been lost amid the snap-crackle of the fire, but Derek was already on high alert, all of his senses turned up to eleven in his panic and fear. He spun around to find Kate Argent there with a crossbow hugged to her chest.

"Looks like we missed one," she said to— somebody, Derek hadn't seen anybody, couldn't smell or hear them. He shifted without thinking about it, heading back in the direction he came from. Away from Kate, away from the sirens, away from the ruin of his family.

He felt something sink into his side, right before he disappeared into the tree line, but he didn't dare stop or look. He focused on his paws eating up the ground beneath him, his burning lungs and the path ahead of him. There was a tug in at his side, when he passed to close to a tree, but he ignored that, too. Kept going until the trees were so thick, not even the moonlight could get through. After making a quick scan of the area using all of his senses, he dropped to the ground and passed out.

When he woke up, he was in a big cage, stretched out on a cold cement floor. It smelled like old gym socks and stale bread, and there was a bandage around his belly that tasted of alcohol. Deaton appeared after a little while, crouched low, and said, "I know who you are and I know what happened. You're safe here, if that's what you want."

A weight on his shoulder draws Derek out of his memories; it's Stiles' hand, gripping tight to muscle and bone. "They shot me with an arrow because I wasn't in the house.."

"Why didn't you change back after you healed?"

"Because," Derek sighs and leans back, taking comfort in Stiles' touch, the warm line of his leg pressed along Derek's side. "Because I didn't have to deal with human things: funerals and identifying bodies, the fire investigation and claiming possessions. Insurance claims," Derek chuckles, "and inheritance crap. I didn't want to be rewarded for my stupidity. Dealing with the loneliness and guilt was easier, as a wolf."

Derek feels stripped bare, laying it all out like that. But there's also a relief in it, letting someone else share the burden, even if Stiles is only sixteen. He knows the tragedy of loss, of his world falling apart. He can fill in the blanks Derek leaves behind.

After a few beats of silence, Stiles gives Derek's shoulder one last squeeze and puts a careful distance between them. The cool rush of air is jarring, but Derek respects Stiles' space.

"Why did you stay with us for so long?" Stiles asks, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. He's facing the playground, but his whole body is stiff and still, like he's bracing himself for impact.

Derek shrugs and stretches out an arm along the back of the bench; he could touch Stiles' jeans if he extended his fingers another half an inch. "I don't know," Derek answers honestly. "It felt good to be loved like that, without prejudice. You didn't know what I'd done—"

"What Kate did," Stiles snaps, raw and fierce.

"What _happened_ ," Derek continues. "And it was easy to protect you, to feel needed. Kind of like putting on a familiar pair of jeans."

"Not the jeans _you_ wear," Stiles says, slanting a sideways grin at Derek's jeans.

Derek knocks his knuckles against Stiles' elbow. "You know what I mean."

"But that still doesn't explain why you didn't tell us, after— after Laura and when you needed our help. It could've made things so much easier.

Derek shrugs and turns his attention to the playground. There's one little boy swinging himself across the monkey bars, slow and steady. He's tiny surrounded by a cluster of kids yelling at him to hurry up, but he stays at his own pace until, with a wild cry, he reaches the end and drops to his feet. He runs over to a woman on a bench nearby, arms swinging wildly, and she congratulates him with a warm kiss on his forehead. The love and pride plain on her face makes Derek's heart skip.

"I wasn't really thinking about it, I guess," he finally says, his voice small and raspy. "Too busy trying to find a place to live that wouldn't get me killed, running from hunters, then you and Scott, the _police_. Trying to figure out why Peter wasn't healing. And then— well, and then." He chances a glance at Stiles and feels relief at the guilty flush to his cheeks. "Can you honestly say you were worried about me — Serious — during all that?"

Stiles' head drops and he's back to picking at his fingers, his legs jittery. "I did look for you," he admits.

"I heard you, that night."

"You did?"

"Yeah, I was— I was trying to find her, too. Before the police could. Before there were too many questions I couldn't answer."

Stiles nods. "Makes sense." He falls silent, his hands stilling, and focuses on the kids screaming about on the playground. Derek can imagine what kind of memories they conjure up, the bittersweet tinge to them. "I did think about you, too," Stiles adds, quieter. Derek doesn't know what to say to that.

"But why did you have to leave on Christmas night, dude?!" Stiles says, louder now, and punches Derek in the shoulder, hard enough for Derek to feel it. It's worse for Stiles; he shakes his fingers out with a silent grimace. "And what was with all that weirdness after my birthday?"

"Animal attacks," Derek explains. "The weekend you left, I heard a deputy come in asking about a strange animal attack. Something took down a bear and left it in shreds. They thought Deaton might have some idea what it could be." Stiles snorts. "Christmas night, though, that's when I knew Laura was alive."

"How?"

"I heard her howl." Derek closes his eyes against the echoes of it in his head. "But I couldn't find her. I think that's when Peter killed her."

"That sucks," Stiles says. It doesn't even begin to describe the whole mess, but Derek will take it over 'I'm sorry' any day.

There's nothing to say after that, no subject they could segue into, but Derek doesn't want to leave, either. He's missed Stiles' company, and it's even better this time, easier now that Stiles knows Derek's secrets. The important ones, at least. Derek can speak freely without worrying about outing himself. It's a relief he hasn't felt in awhile.

"Do you— this is gonna sound so— ridiculous." Stiles huffs out the last words and throws his head back with a groan.

"No more ridiculous than you having a pet werewolf for almost six years."

Stiles shakes a finger at Derek. "One day we will laugh about that."

"But maybe not today."

"Not today," Stiles echoes. He rubs his palms over his thighs and takes a deep breath, and his voice is raspy as he says, "that night at the hospital, when my dad his first episode? Do you remember?"

"Couldn't forget it if I tried," Derek says, his voice just as raw.

"Baby's first panic attack," Stiles says, probably aiming for flippant, but his wince gives him away.

Derek tries to swallow down the lump in his throat. "I remember."

"So you _were_ there?"

"Yeah you—" Derek clears his throat. "I wasn't sure if— but I was so worried. About you, your dad. So, I borrowed some of your dad's clothes and walked over, kept an ear out from a couple floors away."

"Creeper."

Derek flashes him a glare. "When I heard your heart kick up, I followed it. Luckily, you stumbled into a fairly unused section of the hospital. I left the clothes in a corner of the stairwell, and followed you down. It wasn't long until I heard them closing in on us, so I shifted back and hung around again until they found you." Derek had felt terror worse than that only one other night in his life, at that point. Being there for Stiles had been as much about Stiles as about Derek needing reassurance, too. It'd felt good to be useful, though, to be a sort of anchor for Stiles.

"I always thought I dreamed that," Stiles says after awhile. "I mean, there is no way a wolf would be able to sneak into the hospital. Thanks for, y'know, that."

"I'm glad I could help," Derek says, meaning it. The silence that falls is easier this time, Stiles no longer a stiff unforgiving figure just out of reach. 

Still, he manages to startle Derek by leaping to the ground in a flurry of movement. He dusts himself off in wide sweeps of his palms, taking care not to look directly at Derek yet keeping him in Stiles' line of sight. "So where do we go from here?" he asks, face turned up to the tree, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie.

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said, dumb ass. Where. Do we go. From here." His eye drop to Derek but can't settle on any one thing to look at, instead jumping from Derek's ear to his mouth to his neck and back, over and over. Not for the first time, Derek wonders to himself how one person can have so much energy. "Am I supposed to forget about the six years you lived in my house and slept in my bed? How you heard every single one of my secrets, most of which we will never _ever_ talk about. _Ever_. Am I supposed to forget about getting you arrested or seeing you kill Peter? How is Scott supposed to handle it, now? Isn't he at risk without a pack? Being an omega?"

"I thought you said he was doing well on his own."

"I might've lied a little," Stiles mumbles, suddenly fascinated by a piece of lint he found in one of his pockets.

Derek represses a smirk. "I'm so shocked."

"Hey, _I_ was the shocked one, remember? Random Saturday? In a _bookstore_?" He rubs a palm over his fuzzy scalp and blows out a breath. "Anyway, don't think I don't notice you're avoiding the question."

"I don't know, okay?" Derek says in a rush. "There's no rule book here. I have no idea what I'm doing —" he ignores Stiles exaggerated snort "— or how we move on. But..." his voice gets low, quiet, and he ducks his head so he won't have to see Stiles' reaction. "I'd like to. I'd like to try."

Stiles is silent for a long time, rocking from foot to foot. "Okay," he says, "since your plans tend to suck, or not even exist, I'll be sketching this one out. How does that sound?"

Derek looks at him, really looks, taking in the whole lean length of him, his hollow cheeks and the growing shadow of his buzz cut, the clever, elegant fingers and too-knowing eyes. It isn't hard now, to say the words, without the adrenaline and fear mucking things up. So, Derek leans back, crosses his arms over his chest, and says, "Depends on what you have in mind."

As much as Derek has to work to earn Stiles' trust back, Stiles will have to work a little bit, too.


	4. Derek

_One Year(ish) Later_

It's a perfect summer day, the afternoon of Derek's housewarming. The sun is shining, there's a light breeze keeping the bugs away, and the heat wave broke only two days ago, ushering in much needed cooler air. Stiles couldn't have ordered better weather.

It's perfect in other ways, too, now that the house is done; smaller than the one he grew up in, built on the edges of the preserve instead of in the middle of it, with only four bedrooms instead of ten, but his pack is young and have families of their own. They won't need their own rooms for awhile, if ever, but it's good to be prepared, too.

It smells like them, now. Of old gym socks and lacrosse gear, Erica's hair spray and perfume, Isaac's raw anxiety and Stiles' favorite pizza rolls. It feels lived in and loved, comfortable, like home.

Stiles arrives with John, Melissa, and Scott in tow, all of them loaded down with grocery bags, smiles on their faces, warmth in their eyes. It's a surprise every time Melissa hugs him, still; less so Scott's dubious regard. Too busy ushering the boys out into the yard, Derek included, she doesn't seem to notice. "John and I can handle getting the food together," she says, pushing up her sleeves. You boys go out and enjoy the weather and all this work you've done." Scott and Stiles take turns pressing kisses to her cheek, and her light blush is so charming, Derek can't resist doing the same.

The party doesn't get into full swing until about an hour later, once everybody has arrived: Lydia and Jackson, Erica and Boyd, Isaac and Allison, Boyd's parents, Erica's mom, Isaac's guardian. It's small, but the teenagers are rowdy, filling up the empty space with their voices and laughter. The parents laugh, too, both at their kids and with them, and it feels weird, but also cozy and welcoming. Derek still has no idea what he's doing with his rag-tag, pieced-together pack, but the parents don't call him on his inexperience, which is more than Derek could hope for.

Each time the kids get together, they mingle more and more, forming the same sort of bonds Derek shared with his sisters and cousins. It's...it eases Derek's mind, watching them flourish. Sometimes Stiles catches Derek's eye and gives him a knowing smirk, like everything's going exactly according to his mysterious plan. It's something Derek tries not to acknowledge too often, to keep Stiles' ego from getting too big.

Once it's dark, the moon high and bright in the sky, the parents start nudging their kids toward clean-up, and even though they went through an obscene amount of grilled meat and chips and all the prepared salads brought to share, they're done within half an hour, thanks to two well-organized working lines, one for kitchen duty, the other for backyard cleaning. Derek bounces between the two to help, but Melissa keeps maneuvering him out of the way, her hand light on Derek's elbow.

"We've got this," she says. "You get to alpha them around all the time. Let us parents have a chance, huh?" She winks and continues, "Besides, this party is for you, you're allowed to enjoy that." It leaves Derek at odds; he's not going to lounge around on the sofa while people scurry around him, picking up abandoned plates and bottles. It wouldn't be right.

He heads outside instead, redirecting himself around Mrs Reyes' elaborate recyclables sorting, toward the darkest corner of the porch, where it's quiet and he won't — hopefully — be seen. He no sooner lets out a relieved breath than a racket rises up from his left and he lets out a low warning growl, red eyes flashing.

"Stand down!" Stiles yelps, hands held out in front of him. There's a garbage can lid at his feet and two overstuffed bags peeking out from the can itself. "I come bearing garbage, nothing nefarious."

Derek huffs an embarrassed laugh and replaces the lid for Stiles.

"I can't believe I snuck up on you," Stiles says, following Derek back to the corner, hands tucked under his armpits. "Better be careful. You could lose your werewolf cred for that."

"I heard you," Derek lies. "I just wanted to see your reaction."

"Bullshit," Stiles says, with a nudge to Derek's shoulder. The touch lingers, firm and warm. It's something Derek has noticed lately, now that he's around more, done with getting his G.E.D. and building the house, too; how Stiles always finds Derek's eyes on pack night, over somebody's head, and the soft smile Derek gets along with it, how Stiles touches last a beat longer, his fingers strong and sure. Derek wonders if it carries over from Derek being their, well, pet for lack of a better term, when Stiles was far freer with his affection.

What's surprising is how easy it is touching Stiles in return, almost like a reflex. In particular, Derek had a fondness for palming Stiles' buzz cut. It's longer now, Stiles having made the decision to grow it out, and Derek finds he misses the soft fuzz under his palm, the easy reminder that Stiles is still, for all intents and purposes, a teenager that doesn't need Derek's baggage just yet, if ever.

Every time they meet, that fact gets harder and harder to ignore.

"The party was nice," Derek says after awhile.

"Yeah," Stiles says. "We're getting better at meshing. Even Jackson seemed more comfortable. Someday, he might even be a real boy."

Jackson's "I heard that, Stilinski!" floats out of a window a few feet away, making Stiles cackle. Derek can't hold back a grin, either.

"You, too," Stiles says after he calms down. He turns a little, to face Derek, and leans his hip against the railing, arms crossed over his chest. "Becoming a real boy, I mean. If I didn't know any better, I would've thought you were having a good time, too."

Derek pretends to think on it, head tipping from side to side. "I guess, for a given value of 'good.'"

"So you're saying my plans are brilliant?"

"This was part of your plan?"

"Duh?" Stiles snorts and takes a step forward. "One of many steps in the difficult task of getting you integrated. And it's totally, completely, working." Stiles punctuates his point by poking his finger into Derek's chest. On reflex, Derek's hand reaches for Stiles' wrist and holds it close. There's a small voice in his head trying to remind me of why this is a bad idea, but Stiles' weight is louder, the thrum of his pulse underneath Derek's thumb addicting.

"One of many?"

Stiles licks his lips and falters a little bit closer, enough to slacken Derek's hold. "Yep." His eyes are dark, hidden in shadow like they are, all black and wanting, his blinks lazy and sweeping. His Adam's apple hitches as Derek takes a deep breath in and tilts his head down.

"Are there more steps?"

"Y-yup."

Derek bumps his nose against Stiles', hard enough to get Stiles to tip his head back. "And what's the next step?"

Stiles' dark eyes search Derek's face, his breath coming out in cool puffs over Derek's lips. He could close the distance himself, but he needs Stiles to want it more, just a little bit, just this once.

"Oh, fuck it," Stiles mumbles with a little bounce on his toes. His mouth is warm and dry, pressed against Derek's, clumsy and perfect. He doesn't quite know how to angle his nose yet, and his balance is wonky with Derek hanging onto his wrist, but it's— it feels right. It feels _good_.

It feels like a next step.

**Author's Note:**

> Canonical character death refers to Claudia Stilinski and how that affects Stiles and the sheriff (John), after. Also, the Hale fire has happened in this fic, so all the deaths that implies as well.
> 
> I started writing this before season 3B started airing, so my take on Claudia's death doesn't jive with what we know about it thus far.
> 
> The animal death is more theoretical than anything; one of the search and rescue dogs is diagnosed with cancer, but she doesn't die, on screen or off.
> 
> In part two, I delve a little bit into Stiles' panic attacks. There are two fairly explicit ones, told from his point of view, as well as references to others. If you need or want more elaboration, please have a friend pre-read for you or you can email me at dizzzylu @ gmail.com
> 
> I am [dizzzylu](http://dizzzylu.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


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